


Twenty Years In Summers

by paraduxks



Series: 20YIS [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Absent Parents, Aged Down Characters, Aged up characters, Angst, At Least I Think I'm Funny, Bulimia, Child Abuse, Depression, Eating Disorders, Friends to Lovers, Homophobia, Love is also a strong theme, Multi, Past Child Abuse, Pining, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Romance, Set 50-50 in Otabek's head and on Earth., Slow Burn, Slurs, Teen Angst, ace ace baby, chicago is not canon compliant, jj has adhd, otabek is dumb when it comes to important life choices, passage of lotsa time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2018-10-18 07:04:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 154,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10611723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paraduxks/pseuds/paraduxks
Summary: "On 31 October, 1998, Otabek Altin was born, and he died on 22 December, 2083. He was loved by many and had a life that was uniquely ordinary. A lot of people knew him as the skater or the badass DJ turned band member, but we are gathered here today to remember him as a man. He was a lover of music and the arts, and always blended a certain mixture of Splenda packets into his coffee. Seriously, if you want sugary coffee, don't order it black!" Yuri jerked his head to the right, and then paused. He blinked audibly. "Sorry. If...If he wanted it sugary, he should have ordered sugary coffee." He sniffled slightly. "And he may have been my boyfriend, but before that, he was my best friend. And hell, before that, he was someone I can never tell you about. Literally, he's been my only friend for so long, I- I don't know what to do without him."He didn't cry during the funeral. He couldn't. Life didn't work without his best friend.





	1. 2006

2006

Almaty 

 

The window was cold even though it was spring and we were stuck in traffic. It was starting to hurt my forehead, but I didn't care. The clouds were fascinating, and I had recently learned that they moved. They looked like snow. When I had told Ravil that I wanted to touch a cloud, he simply stuck his tongue out at me and said that I was stupid for thinking I could touch a cloud. I asked why and he told me that they were untouchable. I didn't understand and he didn't explain.

When Mama came home that night at seven thirty, I asked her why people couldn't touch clouds. She told me that clouds weren't solid things and that they were made of water. That was even more confusing. Before I could ask how clouds could possibly be made of water, I found myself holding the hand of my sister, Aliya, while Mama started cooking dinner. Aliya and I looked very much alike. We had the same hair and eye color, and the same complexion. The both of us had little eyes and attached earlobes. She was about the same height as me even though I was two years older and we would both grow up to be muscular and agile. We didn't look much like our brothers. We had two of them, and their names were Ravil and Serik. They had bigger eyes lighter brown hair. Ravil’s eyes were hazel and green, while Serik’s eyes were brown. They both looked like our papa, although Ravil looked a lot more like Papa than Serik did.

Then again, I wasn't the best person to tell you what Serik was like because he was away at the time and while there were just short of a million familial photographs around the house, most of them were older than me. Neither Serik or Papa had been home in a while. Mama said that Papa had a lot of work to do and that Serik was away for school. Ravil said it was because they didn't want to be around us anymore, and that it was only a matter of time before Papa left. He hated every hair on our heads anyway. I chose to believe Mama, because she was always right.

When Mama said that we couldn't stay here during the summer, I cried. I was the only one who did, as Aliya was five years old at the time and had no idea what that meant, and Ravil decided to do what he always did, which was to scream about the problem at hand, and then pout, blush, and run away. That night, when we went to bed, I heard him crying. I peeked out from under my blanket and saw him laying on his bed, all curled up with his shoulders shaking. I left my own bed to crawl onto his.

“Ravil?” I asked.

“Mama doesn't want us,” he whispered, “We’re going to be abandoned.” Suddenly I was crying and wrapping my almost thin arms around him. We woke up like that, and then denied that it had ever happened. I went back to my bed and curled up in the blankets with my eyes squeezed shut. An hour later, school started. Six hours later it was done for the season. I stayed sitting at my desk when everyone else left, waiting for Ravil to come and pick me up. I wasn't allowed to leave school without him, which was annoying, because I always wound up waiting another half hour. The teacher sat behind her desk and wrote things down while I stared at her. At first, she had asked me why I wasn't leaving.

“I have to wait for my brother,” I said, and that was that. My chair in the third row from the back and in the second column from the window, and gave me a good view of the buildings next door and the classroom in its entirety. There were thirty desks with connected chairs, and the walls used to be painted a stark white, but had been touched by the hands of so many children that they’re no longer as pristine as an primary school allows. Ravil showed up twenty minutes late that day. He didn't say anything when he walked into the classroom. He had his hands in his pockets and a slight slouch. His bottom lip was poking out a bit and he was glaring at a trash can. I stood up and picked up my

bag, and then I ran over to him. I grabbed one of his wrists as soon as I was able, and he yanked it out almost as quickly. He touched the strap of his bag briefly and then turned and left the classroom. I followed.

We walked in silence through the empty halls, and as soon as we were outside, we clasped hands again and cut a path through the sounds and sights of the city. The keys to the apartment jangled from one of Ravil’s belt loops. They didn't do that before Papa left. We didn't make our way through the city after school before Papa left. I was allowed out alone before Papa left, and while it had to be within his or Mama’s or Papa’s eyesight, it was more than ‘you have to hold Ravil’s hand when you go outside’.

After walking the two kilometers home, I was allowed to let go of his hand. He wiped his palm on his thigh and marched over to the couch, where he splayed himself out, pouting angrily.

“You don't look happy,” I said, “Even though term is over.” He sat up and glared at me. “‘Course I don't look happy. I heard Mama talking on the phone and she’s taking us somewhere tonight. She doesn't want us.”

“How do you know?”

“When you went to sleep, I stayed awake. I heard her, Beka.”

“Don't call me Beka!” I yelled. He shook his head no. “No. But don't you remember? When she told us last night? She said we couldn't stay here during the summer, but who knows?! Papa said he was leaving for the weekend and then that weekend lasted forever!” Papa was mean, if I remember correctly. He made us cry a lot. He was brash and always furious, and liked to drink from black bottles that I wasn't allowed to touch.

“Mama wouldn't do that,” I argued. She couldn't. Why would she do that? Each night when Ravil said that Mama loved him the best, she said she loved us all the same.

“Papa did! He did and he’d do it again! How do we know that Mama won't?” Ravil shouted, “We’re poor! Why shouldn't Mama get rid of us?” His eyes were getting red. I shrugged my bag off of my shoulder and walked over to sit on the couch.

“Mama loves us.” He growled lowly and turned to face the other direction.

“We don't know that, Otabek.”

“Don't call me that.” I found I liked my actual name far worse than the nickname he has given me. Ravil smiled softly at me, “Make up your mind.” and then turned to grab a pillow. He pressed it to his face and screamed as loudly as he could, holding out a scream for about a minute before starting again. I got up while he was screaming to retrieve a Kazakh edition of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. It was good reading practice, even if I didn't know what half of the words were or meant.

“You like fairy tales?” I stuck my tongue out in response. He scoffed, and rolled over onto his stomach. “You’re such a baby, Beka.”

“I’m not a baby!”

“A baby who can't come up with any good comebacks!” Ravil laughed softly, and kicked me in the ribs without looking. “Don't do that!” I shouted, and made an attempt to throw an elbow into his spine. He kicked my stomach before I could land the blow, chortling.

“A baby who can't fight because he’s too busy reading!” I growled to myself, and with an open palm slapped his calf. Ravil jerked up, and flipped over to sit on his knees in a matter of seconds. He drew his palm back, then returned it to his chest.

“Sorry.” I rammed my forehead into his shoulder, “It’s okay.” Ravil gave me a pat on the head. “Papa would have hit you, you know.” I nodded.

“I know. But you’re not Papa. You’re Ravil.”

“A weird baby.” I stuck my tongue out again. He kept worrying about whether or not Mama loved us, and when Serik would be coming home. Serik was like God to Ravil. He was our older brother, and he was away. We didn't get to know where, just that he was away. He called every night at ten, though, to tell us about the things that were happening in his life. He started seeing a girl named Myrto recently. I didn't quite understand that. People saw people every day and didn't remember their names.

That night when Serik called, it was just him talking to Mama for about an hour while I played with Aliya’s hair and Ravil waited patiently and with jealousy for the phone. He didn't do a good job. Three minutes in, he stood up and started angrily pacing all over the apartment. He went into our room at some point and didn't come back out. When Mama was done, she came into our room. Mama sat down on Ravil’s bed and patted at the mattress next to her. Ravil stayed where he was, splayed out on the bed, but I ran over as fast as my short legs would allow, with Aliya following swiftly behind. Aliya jumped up onto her lap, where she was hugged and kissed atop the head. Mama put her hand out for me to take, and I held onto her index and middle fingers. She smiled softly at me, and shook her hair out of her face.

“I want to apologize to you all,” she began, “I can't keep you here over the summer.” Ravil jumped to his feet, mumbled “I told you so,” and ran out of the room with his keys jangling on his hip. I nearly followed, the feeling of intense betrayal settling in my stomach. Ravil was right about something I never thought would happen. I almost began to cry when we heard a door slamming. Mama bit her lip and continued talking. “You’re all so young, and the world is so dangerous. Even if I told you to stay inside every day, you wouldn't think twice about going outside. A big city is not a safe place for three childre. And so, for that reason alone, you’re not going to stay here this summer. Please, don't think I love you any less. You are my sun, my moon, and my stars. You’re going to stay with your grandparents. They live fifteen minutes away. I’m going to take you to their house in a week. It also gives us a financial boost. Now, Beka, I need you to take care of your sister while I find your brother. Can you do that?” I nodded, wondering what a financial boost was. Mama kissed me on the forehead.

“I love you all so much. Please never forget that.” She stood up and ran out the door with no shoes on. The next day, when I woke up, Ravil was in the bed opposite mine. He was sleeping above the covers. He was fully clothed and clutching his pillow. I didn't ask why. We seldom talked to each other that day, or the next. What we did do was pack up all of our clothes. There were only two suitcases, though, so me and Aliya had to share. We managed; as neither of us had much clothing. On the fourth day after the end of term, Mama told us after lunch that it was time to go to our grandparents house. Aliya and I were in the backseat of the car with our suitcases and backpacks in the car right away, but it was a while before Ravil could be convinced to get in the goddamn car.

That’s why I was sitting in the back seat of a car with my forehead pressed against an unseasonably cold window. Ravil sat in the front seat, pouting and unwilling to talk, and Aliya spoke in half Kazakh and half a language of her own next to me. It felt like hours before we moved again. The car departed from the highways of the downtown area and diverted into a part of the city I had never been in before. There were no sidewalks here, and there were actual houses instead of apartment buildings. The houses were skinny but tall, and had a sense of uniformity despite their individuality. They were shoved onto hills with tiny alleys between them and there were screens over all the doors. The outside walls were covered in cracked paint that was either light or dark, with no gray area.

We drove past an empty lot, something you never downtown. There was a chain link fence surrounding it, and telephone wires crossing overhead in the sky. Mama stopped the car shortly after we passed the empty lot, and told us all to get out. Aliya and I excitedly left the car, while Ravil stayed put. I walked around to the front of the car to look at him in the window. He was pouting and glaring at a spot behind me with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Ravil,” I mumbled, rapping on the glass, “Get out of the car.” He shook his head, but came out anyway. He wordlessly collected his suitcase and backpack and stood on the edge of the road. I retrieved my things and then helped Aliya in getting her own things. Without a word and without any of us realizing, the three of us found ourselves squeezing each other’s hands while Mama knocked on the door. Time passed agonizingly slowly between the last of three fast knocks and the opening of the red-painted door behind the screen. Our lives ended and began when my grandmother, Bibigul Altin, opened the front door of her house on that day in June, when the heat was dry and in a place where silence could ring every other sometimes.

Time began to pass again, as time always does. Grandma’s face broke into a smile upon seeing us, and she pushed open the screen door. She welcomed us into the air conditioned house with Grandpa on her shoulder. There was a brief silence before Arman was introduced. He came running out of the thin hall behind Grandma and Grandpa and greeted us with a flurry of barking and licking. It was the first time I had ever been this close to a dog that didn't have malicious intentions.

“Hi!” Aliya shouted, holding the dog’s huge head in her hands. She quickly discovered that the dog had a collar with jangly things on it, which only lead to more excitement.

“This is Arman,” Grandpa said, bending down himself. He found the dog’s collar without looking, and pulled the tag around for Aliya to see. I bent down to look at the tag. It was a blue rectangle that had small coastlines of chipped paint and the name Arman along with a phone number in the center. Ravil huffed and walked further into the house. He stomped loudly on the polished wood floor and on the carpet that covered some parts of it. He didn't make it far before being assaulted by another, smaller dog. He nearly fell down, bracing himself against the wall, before yelling that he didn't want the dog. Ravil shoved this dog away from him and ran off down the hall.

Mama pulled Grandpa up and to the side, while I moved on to pet the other dog. This one was a short dog that wasn't quite fat enough to be called fat. It had fur that was a gradient from white to rust. I sat on the floor and stroked the dog’s head. It leapt into my lap and butted its head against my shoulder. The dog was fluffy once you made it around all the many matts in the fur.

“Her name is Ainia,” Grandma said. My skin became white hot and I jumped slightly. Grandma smiled at me, and crawled on the floor to sit next to me. She stroked Ainia gently.

“Your mother really does love you, you know,” She said. I nodded.

“I know. All Mamas have to love their babies, or else they’re bad Mamas.” Grandma smiled.

“Hey, guess what?” She asked softly, a smug look on her face.

“What?”

“Since your brother and sister are distracted, you can get the first pick of where you want to sleep!” She spoke louder that time, nearly shouting in my ear, but it caught the attention of Aliya and Ravil. The job was done on her end. On my end of the deal, I was just plain excited. It would be years before I got something brand new to call my own, and while beds weren't exactly the same as getting a pair of jeans that weren't far too long and large around the waist or getting a book that was written in this century, it was still just as exciting.

“Okay!” I shouted, and stood up, completely ignoring the fact that I had no idea where to find a bed. The dog was momentarily surprised. Grandma stood up with me.

She wound up leading me up a set of stairs that had been hiding between Mama and Grandpa, and showing me into a room that was a bit bigger than ours at home. It had two beds, a dresser, and a small table in between the beds smushed into it, and a closet door that never closed all the way. Above the table, there was a window that had a great view of the house behind that of my grandparents. In the winters, that window let in a terrible draft even when it was shut. There was no carpet in the room, and the floorboards were uneven. The floor was always cold, too, even during the hottest of summers. In some places the nails were sticking out. In a few days, Aliya would trip and hit her lip on one of the nails, causing a tear and a scar that she would cover up with makeup when she got older. I would love that scar, and would later get one to match.

“Which bed do you want?” Grandma asked. I put my backpack on the bed with the more interesting quilt. It was white with a black square in the center. The lines weren’t straight. Inside the black square, there was a sloppy red circle outlined in even sloppier white fabric. Once I learned what a telescope was, it would remind me of one of them. I barely had time to sit down before Ravil came barreling into the tiny room and up the ladder of the bunkbed. He looked lion-esq as he sat up there, protecting his territory and clutching his backpack to his chest. The only thing was, Ravil was a stick figure. He was short and when he wasn't wearing a shirt, you could see every one of his ribs. His waist was like a girl’s, and his arms looked like all it would take to break them would be a particularly nasty trip over a shoelace.

Aliya then came toddling in and claimed the bottom bunk. Grandma kept talking about things and stuff and other things, but I wasn't listening. I was looking at the window. What a lovely window it was. The windowsill was painted white, and was chipped in places. In the chipped places, some of the wood that was showing was lighter than others.

“Why does the windowsill look like that?” I asked. She stopped talking and looked at me.

“Excuse me? What- What do you mean, why does it look like that?” I reached out and ran my hand along the windowsill.

“Why is it all wrinkly, and why is some of the wood lighter than other wood?” Grandma sighed, and kept talking about nothing. I hated when people talked about nothing, although I didn't know it yet. I stopped paying attention to her a long time ago, anyway. Ravil and Aliya left the room, Aliya first and Ravil a while after. He sneered at me when I pulled out the same damn book that I still couldn't read and shoved my face into the pages on his way out of the room. It hurt my nose. It made me wonder what it had felt like when Ravil had broken his arm when he was younger. I don't really remember it, just that he sometimes takes his cast out of the closet and hits me in the stomach with it when I’m dancing. See, that’s something else that he doesn't like about me. He hates that I like to read and that I like to dance and that I don't want to fight people. One time, he came home from school- back before Papa disappeared- with blood all over his face. Aliya burst into tears on the spot, and I ran straight to him ad hugged him. I cried and told him I loved him. Mama said something that I’ll never completely remember about how blood is bad, and means that you’ve been hurt really badly. The world told me, before I was Ravil’s age, that blood meant you died.

He punched me in the jaw and told me to fuck off, so Papa punched _him_ in the jaw and yelled at him about respect. Papa was scary when he yelled. His breath stank. It smelled like the remains of a corpse had been preserved in a jar of beer and the jar was his mouth. Maybe Papa was so scary because he was always drunk. He once said that blood was thick, but whenever it was coming from my skin, it just dripped away.

I decided to dance. The light was dying and I could pretend I was on a stage. The spotlights were just broken right now.

I danced about blood. Under normal circumstances, I would be mad at my awkward body. Today, however, I was really distracted with thoughts of the car ride. Aliya was sitting cross legged. During the first five minutes, she kicked off her yellow sandals. She hated wearing shoes. They were chunky and didn't fit her. They used to be my sandals. I remember wearing them around the apartment when I got them, and using them to run around in areas that Mama told me not to. There was probably a lot of bits of glass stuck in the soles of those sandals. I was so damn proud of those sandals.

Aliya kicked them off within the first five minutes of the car ride, and bounced while gibbering for a bit and then calmed down, eventually crossing her legs to look out the window. There was a shadow covering the half of her body that was facing the window. I stared at the bottom of her foot. It was wrinkled and a different shade from the sides and top of her foot. Her toes curled slightly, and I reached out to touch her biggest toe at one point. She asked me why and I didn't say anything. Her toe was dry and warm.

While I was thinking about Aliya’s foot, I wound up falling flat on my butt. My tailbone ached and I was pretty sure that my spine had been pushed up into my brain. I stretched my arms up so far I was afraid the tendons would snap. I was hungry. I got up from the floor and traipsed downstairs. I traipsed all over the house, and attracted a dog in the process. This one was Ainia. I really liked her. She was jumpy. She had the tendency to leap up to the height of my head whenever anything touched her.

The house was rather small. There were three rooms on the first floor and three on the second. The third floor had two rooms and the fourth floor wasn't really a fourth floor, it was more of a crawlspace. There was a lost colony of dust bunnies living in the crawlspace and a bunch of stuff that would make you think that you were living in a tiny village near the Southern border of Russia. Shame I’d never visit a tiny village near the Southern border of Russia. But that’s beside the point.

The house was tall and skinny, and the corners between the walls and the ceiling were all cracked and had cracks running down the walls and on the ceiling. On the first floor, there was the kitchen and the living room and the mud room, as Grandma called it, or the entry hall, as Grandpa called it. I just called it the room in front of the rest of the house. The living room was a mess. There were bags and clothes and dog hair on every surface, and books and boxes and papers and a whole assortment of other things littering the room. Aliya and Ravil were sitting on the couch, eating food. Aliya’s plate was a mess and Ravil’s was fairly neat. Ainia ran through my legs and jumped up onto the couch to nuzzle my siblings. I found myself in their exact same situation not ten minutes later. Our grandparents kept talking to Ravil about his school and friends and those sorts of things.

I fell asleep on the couch, and in the process spilled something red on my pants. I thought that it was animal fat of some sort. Grandpa picked me up and carried me to the bedroom that night. I was woken up when my foot bumped into the wall of the stairwell. It was a hard wall and I am a light sleeper. I felt tiny in that moment. Not that I had never felt tiny before. I had felt tiny plenty of times, but it wasn't often that I felt this kind of small. It was usually powerlessly so, or the kind of small I felt in the centre of the city. At not much more than a meter tall, that was to be expected. This time, I felt like my skin was too big for the rest of me. It felt like winter. My coats are all Ravil’s coats, and those are all Serik’s coats. Serik is tall and muscular and has looks like a movie star. I’d know because once, a while ago, I got caught spying on Ravil, so he took me to the movie theatre with his friends instead of leaving me out in the streets. I didn't particularly enjoy or remember the movie. It was all the rage to Ravil’s friends, though. Anyway, it felt like I was wearing one of his or my coats. They were all too big and had holes in the pockets. There were only two. They both were just too big around my ribs and waist and while the gap was really quite tiny, it felt like twelve or thirteen kilometers. I was skinny, though. Ravil made fun of me for it. He said that I was shaped like Mama. I didn't think that I was, though. She was big and I was little.

In the middle of the night, I heard a sound that wasn't that different from morning birdsong. It woke me up and I thought that the world had gone phooey, because the birds were singing but there was no light from the window.

“Ravil?” I asked, “Why isn't the sun up?”

“‘S not morning, d-dumbass,” He growled. His voice was choked. I sat up.

“You sound wrong,” I said. Ravil didn't respond. He just cried. He cried all that night and I didn't have a clue why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy chocolate bunny season. If you don't celebrate Chocolate Bunny Day, happy Sunday.


	2. 2006.2

There was a playground halfway between our grandparents house and a corner store. Every morning, Grandpa hooked leashes onto the dogs and made the walk to the store so that he could buy individual cigars. He made the walk again after dinner. Dogs weren't allowed to go in the store because the owner, Mrs. Polzin, had a cat that she kept in the store. It was large and muscular and gray with a little white beard. I had only seen the cat a few times, because Grandpa usually told me and Aliya to wait at the playground. The playground was scary, because there was never anybody else there. There were designs painted on the slide. I couldn't make sense of them. Neither me nor Aliya liked to play on the playground. There was something foreboding about it. So we just sat on the bench until Grandpa and Ravil came back. We didn't talk much, but one day we would. I thought that you shouldn't talk unless you had a purpose for it, but as it turns out, talking without purpose is one of the best variants of conversation. That’s something that the bench taught me. 

It was the day after Aliya tripped over her bed sheet just after waking up and landed on one of the nails that stuck up from the floor. She was cut across the top of her lip, from the left corner of her mouth to just under her opposite nostril. It was like a moustache of blood. Grandma had spent some time wiping her face off and then had rushed her off to the nearest hospital. That had been hours ago. 

Grandpa was taking years and years to buy his damn cigars that day. But the injury of Aliya’s face and the length of his cigar-purchasing weren't what made the day stand out so much. That was the first time I saw another person at the playground. She was a short girl with dark skin and hair. It was pulled tight against her scalp and braided neatly down her back. She was wearing a black tank top, jeans, and red sandals, all of which looked well worn. She went about her business, sliding down the slide several times and eventually going to swing on the swings. 

I went over to swing on the swing next to her almost immediately. She didn't pay attention to me at all. In fact, she got up and left not long after I joined her. That little girl was the first person I had met during the daytime where my grandparents lived. At around seven or eight at night, there were these little kids who would start screaming. I didn't know what they were screaming about, they just were. So I pulled the pillow over my head and ignored them. It was Ravil’s idea, which I copied. It didn't work at all. I still heard people screaming at random times. The only times I didn't hear them was when it rained. And it was very sunny here during the summers. 

After the girl left the playground and ran off in the direction of the corner store, I left the swing to sit back on the bench. It was lonely. Cars and bikes and other fast vehicles whizzed down the street here. Nobody was stuck in traffic, and the amount of people here was vastly smaller from that at home. 

“Beka!” I jerked up so fast I got whiplash. Ravil was sprinting towards me. He was holding an ice cream cone. Grandpa was behind him and he was smoking a cigar. He was holding the dogs’ leashes in one hand and a small plastic bag in the other. There were cigars in that bag. Ravil arrived at my bench faster than you could blink and sat down. 

“So this is where you stay when we’re shopping? Looks boring.” His cheeks were flushed and split from grinning. 

“You’re smiling,” I said, for lack of something better to say. He nodded rapidly. 

“Y-Yeah, it’s because I don't have to hang around you all day any more!” Grandpa arrived at the bench just as Ravil was saying this. 

“Ravil made a friend today,” he commented, and was on his merry way home. I got up from the bench, and so did Ravil. 

“Yeah, I did. His name is Nuroski and we’re going to play football tomorrow, so you better not come, Beka.” 

“Stop calling me that!” I said. That nickname really annoyed the hell out of me.

“Beka, Beka, Beka!” He teased. His ice cream was dripping. I leaned forward and took a bite of the ice cream. It was cold and sugary, per my expectations. That’s the way ice cream tastes, after all. 

“Be-ka!” Ravil whined, and punched my arm with his free hand. “Grandpa, Beka stole my ice cream!” Grandpa clicked his tongue. 

“No, he stole my ice cream. I paid for it, after all. And he can have whatever he wants,” Grandpa said. I found myself smiling. I never won arguments. Ravil growled. I took another bite of his ice cream and he punched me in the ribs this time. He hit my chest when my heart was on an off-beat and caused a slight change in my heartbeat. It made my entire body go all wonky for a moment. When he pulled a face that practically shouted, ‘I’m better than you,’ I hitch kicked his ass. Ravil let out a high pitched scream and dropped his ice cream. 

“Beka, you dick!” He groaned, clutching the place where I had kicked him. Grandpa turned around. One of the dogs had started to lick at the spilled ice cream. I knelt down to pat her head while she did. Her fur was thinner than it looked. 

“What did he do to you now?” Grandpa asked, somewhat sarcastically. I looked up.

“I hitch kicked his ass,” I deadpanned. Grandpa laughed a hearty and whole laugh. His laugh was like the meat of a fig. It made my body feel all prickly, so I shot up, with a straight spine. Wasn't he mad? Papa would have hit me by now, and Mama would have looked at me with big eyes and told me she expected more from me. Why wasn't he telling me that I was too mature to kick my brother in the ass? 

“What’s a hitch kick?” Grandpa asked. I had never felt so humiliated, and Ravil looked about as enraged as he did every other week. 

“What?” Ravil and I asked in unison. Ravil made a gesture to all of me, “Why does what a hitch kick is even matter?! It’s another stupid dance move that he’s always doing! He hurt me, Grandpa, and knocked the ice cream on the ground!  _ My _ ice cream!” Grandpa held up a finger. It was like magic. Ravil stopped talking and went pink. He glared at Ania. 

“At least make your dumb dog stop eating my ice cream.” Grandpa yanked back on Ania’s leash. 

“Now, Otabek…What is a hitch kick?” Flushed bright red, no doubt, I stepped back and performed the move. I had seen other people do it in the past, but had never done it very well. I could never get my feet up super high, like some people in my jazz class could. Grandpa looked impressed, though. He hooked the leashes over one arm and clapped. 

“Seriously?! You’re  _ clapping _ for him?!” Ravil shouted, like it was the end of the world. “My kick wasn't very good,” I commented. Grandpa laughed. 

“Nonsense, your kick was wonderful.” He turned around and continued the walk home. I coughed in his smoke cloud. Ravil looked furious. He kicked the ice cream into the playground, and complained about the stain it left on his shoe for the next two days. 

“You shouldn't have kicked the ice cream,” I commented one day when he came back from playing football with Nuroski. I was sitting at the dinner table, waiting for Grandma to finish cooking. Grandpa was sitting at the head of the table with a fresh cigar laying on the table where his fork would be and reading the news. 

“You shouldn't have kicked me!” He shouted. Grandma sighed, 

“Give me your shoe. I’ll wash it for you.” Ravil looked mad, although that was the understatement of the century. He always looked mad. 

“Then what will I wear?” He asked, as if he was saying ‘the sun rose this morning.’ Ravil yanked a chair back and plopped down into it. 

“You don't have to play football every day,” I said. Ravil huffed, crossed his arms, and sunk in his chair. I straightened my spine and sat with my elbows on the table. Grandpa made a grunt of approval. 

“Ravil, sit up straight,” he mumbled. He hadn't absorbed a word of the conversation, but for some reason, Ravil though that he had. He sunk lower into his seat. 

“Does this please the king?” He asked sarcastically. Grandma turned around from vegetable peeling. 

“If you’re going to stay here, you are going to be respectful, young man!” She said angrily. Ravil sat up straight, but that didn't mean that he escaped a smack on the head. It looked like it hurt. I started to slide out of my chair to go find Aliya. Grandma turned back to her potatoes or cucumbers or whatever it was she was peeling and I took the chance to run into the living room and bring Aliya into the kitchen, which was also the dining room. She sat next to me, and we dined on pilaf as if we were the queen and king of that table. Aliya seemed to be in an eating competition with Ravil. When did they organize that? They were both eating at a breakneck pace, while I was slowly putting bites of food into my mouth and staring at the sink. It was an interesting sink. There were two sinks, but only one faucet. Why was that?

“Grandma?” I asked. She looked at me. There was a bit of onion stuck to her chin. “Why are there two sinks?” Grandma narrowed her eyes. 

“Because there are,” She answered. Nobody else told her about that onion. After dinner, when she was washing the dishes, I tugged on her sleeve. 

“Grandma,” I said, “There’s an onion on your chin.” She narrowed her eyes at me again. She did that to you a lot. She wiped the onion away and hummed gently. She brushed the onion into one of the sinks. This sink didn't have any dishes in it. 

“Why is one sink empty?” 

“Because it’s the food sink,” she said, and grabbed a plate from the not-food sink. She rinsed and washed it before sticking it in the dishwashing machine. I thanked her and ran off to find out what Grandpa was doing. He was sitting in his recliner, the one that no one else got to sit in, and reading the news. He was still holding the same unlit cigar in one hand. He kept a box on the windowsill next to his recliner that was full of cigars. The box was yellow and old. There were words written on the box I didn't understand. 

“What does it say?” I asked again. Grandpa rolled his eyes,

“King Edward the Seventh- Mild Tobaccos.” That raised many questions. Who was King Edward the Seventh, and why were there six more of him running around? What was tobacco, and how did one tell the difference between kinds of tobacco? Did the king have a queen? I asked my questions, but Grandpa ignored me. I eventually left and went back to the shared bedroom. That bedroom excited me. It was the first time in my life that I didn't have to share a bed with either Ravil or Aliya. I even got telescope sheets! What didn't excite me was that Ravil was always lounging on his bed. He looked like a puppeteer, which I had seen once in a magazine. I collapsed and laid on my-  _ my! _ \- bed, all splayed out. 

I wondered if the kids would scream again tonight.  They did. They were scary. In the middle of the night, they woke me up. They had been in my dream. It had been about banshees and domovye having a housewarming party. A very loud housewarming party. The banshees had been screaming right off the bat, and then the domovye had declared war on them for spilling their wine. Wine that the banshees weren't drinking, because they were too busy screaming about everything. Anyway, the banshees screaming were actually those annoying kids screaming. Why were they screaming so loudly, anyway? 

I propped myself up with one arm, and tried to look out the window, but it was covered for the night. I plopped down and wrapped my pillow around my head. I didn't sleep well that night. It was either too cold or too warm the entire night, and the banshees and domovye kept coming back into my head. I woke up sometime very late, and decided that I would climb into Aliya’s bed. So I did. I pattered across the floor and pressed my back to hers. That wouldn't do, so I turned so that my stomach was on her back. She was warm and felt familiar, and it felt more like home, where we shared a bed all year round. She slept like a log, and didn't notice me at all. The thing was, I felt like I had to stay still too. I never got to thrash freely. That was one of the upsides to having your own bed, at least. 

I liked having two adults in the house. Neither of them ever refused to listen to something that we had to say or told us that we were stupid. At least, not verbally. I felt stupid nearly every time I asked a question, because then I would get a cocked eyebrow or narrowed eyes. My grandparents were very traditional people. Aliya was told that she had to start wearing skirts instead of ‘dressing like a fellow.’ Grandma took her out shopping one day for that sake. I wanted to go with them, but Grandma wouldn't let me. Instead, I wound up sitting on the bench at the playground alone again. Well, not entirely. On the other side of the playground, there was a basketball court. What made it a basketball court, though? Nobody was ever there. But anyway. 

Today, Ravil was playing football with Nuroski and some other boys. Why I was there, I didn't know. It would make more sense for me to be at the corner store, waiting outside and holding Shawn and Ania’s leashes. I sort of didn't want to leave the bench, though. It was nice and warm, and like when you leave a sauce or a vinaigrette to sit and it separates. I was separating. 

When Grandpa came back from the corner store with his cigars, I got up. I hadn't realized that I had been sweating. It was July now, the peak of the summer’s heat. 

“I’ll get Ravil,” I said. Grandpa waved a hand dismissively. 

“He knows how to get home.” I walked home beside Grandpa instead of behind him that day. He always wore the same outfit, so I wasn't sure if it was him or his shirt that smelled like smoke. I reached down to pet Shawn’s dark head. 

“Who held the dogs today?” 

“The pole,” Grandpa said. There was a pole in front of the store. It didn't seem to have a purpose, or maybe its purpose had left it a long time ago. 

“Oh.” 

When we got home, my throat was dry. I pulled a cup from the cupboard and filled it with water from the sink. The tap was over the food sink. I hoped that it was okay to do that. The water wasn't cold enough, but it did undo the dryness of my throat. I left the cup in the food sink. 

During midday, Grandpa drove me to ballet. On that day, it was one of the times that I enjoyed ballet. It was a day on which not getting to hold the dogs and not playing football with the other boys didn't matter. I hardly noticed when the hour had passed. I left the studio, which was in the front of a strip mall on a highway, and stood out front. The boys all scattered instantly, and the girls stood by a kebab restaurant two stores over to wait for their guardians to pick them up. Like when buying his cigars, Grandpa was late picking me up. Every single time. Maybe because, like Grandma, he was a traditional man and didn't approve of a boy taking classical ballet, in which he learned to move with grace. Grandpa didn't know how strong and bendy dancers were, though. Just like at home, I was too feminine in my interests and Aliya was too much of a tomboy. Grandma and Aliya were home when we got back from ballet. My cup was still in the food sink. I pulled it out and drank from it again. 

“You stink!” Aliya commented. She was wearing a floral printed yellow skirt instead of her jeans. I pulled my white shirt up over my nose. I did stink. 

“Huh.” 

“Hey, Beka, come over here,” She said. I walked into the living room and sat on the couch next to her. She dug a bracelet from her pocket. It was made of wooden beads on an elastic cord, which was tied in a very fancy knot above one of the beads. 

“I got this for you, because Grandma said that you couldn't come,” She said. I slid it onto my wrist. I positioned it so that the knot was in the center of my wrist. 

“Thanks.” Aliya smiled.

“So I got you that bracelet. Now you need to do something for me.” I groaned, 

“What do you want?” 

“Cut my hair off!” She shouted. Grandma looked up from where she was sifting through a shopping bag. 

“No. You will not cut all your hair off. You’ll look like a boy, and we don't want that, do we?” Aliya shrugged. 

“I don't really care if I look like a boy or not.” Grandma was appalled. She stood up to her full height of not very tall, and planted her hands on her hips. 

“Aliya, you are a young woman. Why wouldn't you want to be seen as one?” Aliya just shrugged, and exclaimed, “I just want short hair!” Grandma said no. I told her that I would cut off her ponytail for her. That night, we stayed up really late and snuck into the kitchen. There weren't any scissors there, so we looked all around the house. We thought that because Grandma and Grandpa were sleeping meant that they couldn't be woken by us, so we continued the crusade for scissors. I eventually found them in a sewing box. 

“Aliya!” I shouted, “I found scissors!” And so we ran to meet each other in the kitchen. The light cast through the window was orange, just like the way the night sky was at home. Aliya turned so that she was facing the window.

“Hurry!” She whispered. Her hair was in a ponytail, so I reached up behind the hair tie and snipped through her black hair. She giggled excitedly when I had finished and thrown her hair in the trash. She had never had a haircut before tonight. We raced up the narrow staircase and into the bathroom, where I flicked the light switch so that we could see Aliya’s hair. It came down to her chin now, in light waves. I clapped, and made eye contact with Mirror Aliya. Her cheeks were split in a large, toothy grin. That is, until Grandma appeared behind us. Then her face became a shocked frown. It was only a little bit less angry than Grandma’s. 

“What did you do to her hair, Otabek?!” She shrieked. 

“Is that a fake question? Like, one you ask that’s not meant to be answered?” I asked. Grandma was plum-colored with fury. I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Ravil had appeared behind her. 

“Rhetoric,” he mouthed. I didn't know what that word meant. 

“You have exactly one minute to explain where Aliya’s hair has gone!” Grandma shouted. 

“I asked him to cut it,” Aliya said, “It’s heavy and hot and annoying! Just like those dumb dresses you made me get!” She crossed her arms. 

“Those things made you beautiful!” Grandma protested. Aliya scoffed, 

“Does it even really matter?” Grandma turned on me. 

“And you! Why did you do as she asked? Do you  _ want _ your sister to feel left out all the other girls? Things like this take time to fix…” I stopped listening. I stopped caring. I had been yelled at too many times to care. I even nodded and said ‘yes, Grandma’ at the right times. That is, until Grandma said something that was hard to let pass by. 

“Neither of you get to play the way you do anymore. This means no more getting dirt all over your face every day, no more getting into fights for you, Aliya. And Otabek, stop reading so much. I’m not driving you to those ballet classes anymore. Ballet is for girls.”  


	3. 2007

2007

 

Mama decided once more that we were to stay the summer at Grandma and Grandpa’s house, and since Mama’s words were law, we drove there three days after term ended. It was as if no time had passed since last year. Of course, some things were different. Aliya had been allowed to keep her hair short, and Ravil had joined a football team. He was nearly addicted. But for me, everything was still exactly the same. The days seemed to blur together. Is that something too morose for a kid my age to say? It was true, though. Every day went the same. I would walk to school with Ravil and Aliya and stay there all day, and then come home. On Mondays and Wednesdays, I had ballet. On Saturdays and Tuesdays, I had jazz. This Friday in particular, I had ice skating. It had been recommended by a boy in my ballet class, a few years older than me. He was quite good at what he did, and he was one of the nicer ones. Everybody in ballet was really very cold and disliked talking to me, and when I returned to class after practicing by myself all of July last year, the other boy, Misha, asked me where I had gone. I smiled inside.

“I cut my sister’s hair,” I said while taking off my left shoe. Misha raised an eyebrow. I was envious of that skill.

“What does that have to do with anything?

“Ballet was taken away as a punishment,” I said, and put my shoes into my bag. I  started to push myself up from the ground. Misha offered a hand. I stared at it for a minute before realizing that he wanted me to take it. So I did, and he yanked me to my feet. I stumbled briefly and then stood normally.

“Thanks,” I said. I started leaving the dressing room. Misha started leaving alongside me. He didn't have his bag.

“Where’s your bag?” I asked.

“I don't need one,” He said, “My mom works in the bookstore.” He spoke in reference of a bookstore that was also part of the strip mall.

“Oh,” I said, “Can I get a book?” Misha nodded, and lead me into the bookstore. The floor was made of wood and there were chairs in the shelves. There was a blond woman behind the counter.

“Hi, mom.” Misha said, as if on autopilot.

“Hi, Misha.” She sounded the same. She didn't even look up from the cash register. Misha turned to me.

“You can read whatever you want, you just can't leave without paying,” Misha explained. I nodded, and slowly began looking around, reading the titles of books with my head tilted to the side. There were books of all genres and sizes.

“Oh, and you can sell books, too!” Misha said proudly. The realization hit me then that I didn't have any money.

“I don't have any money.” Misha never stopped grinning.

“That’s okay. It doesn't matter.” I looked around the bookstore for a little while longer before leaving. I said goodbye to Misha, and when I did, he asked what school I went to. I told him. He told me which one he went to, and we parted ways. Grandpa was waiting in his car in the parking lot. He looked miffed when I climbed into the front seat.

“Get in the back.” I didn't, which made Grandpa sigh. It was his annoyed sigh.

“Why did you come out of the bookstore and not the dance studio?” He asked. I looked back at the studio.

“I was talking to a boy.” Grandpa started the car and started driving.

“Oh? A friend?” I shook my head. Grandpa didn't ask any more questions. He couldn't give any less of a damn about whether or not I was making friends. However, I would become friends with Misha. He was great, if not the littlest of the little shits.

The highways blurred together on the ride home. The minute we were off the freeway, every window in the car was down. The wind was warm and loud and felt a bit unnerving, even when we were obeying the speed limit of 35 kilometers per hour. I saw a few people I recognized out and about, the most noticeable of which was Mrs. Polzin’s cat. His name was Yosef.

When we got home, Grandpa parked his car in the lot. Nobody else parked their cars in there. It was probably due to the way the lot was made. It was like a calico print of tarmac and weathered red bricks. In every single crack, there were weeds. Strewn about the lot, there was shattered glass and other forms of refuse. There were also things that were so disgusting and unidentifiable that it was better to not be curious as to what they were. Tiptoeing around what looked like vomit made me wonder if the heroes I read about ever had to do the same. I really liked stories about heroes when I was a little kid. Shame was, I never got to hear the tales of people who never had to slay a dragon or outwit a witch.

We left the lot and walked up to the house. It always took a while to unlock the door at my grandparents’ house, because there were four locks on the door to my grandparent’s house. Mama was only allowed to have one lock, but she would have at least four if it were an option. She really liked her key ring. She held it a lot, and played with the keys so much that she always smelled a little bit like metal when she gave you a hug. You hardly ever saw my grandparent’s keys unless they were in the locks. Ravil and I had keys to the house, but that was because of the lack of time we spent there. When I wasn't at dance or the ice skating rink, I often went to play football with Ravil and Nuroski. Ravil openly invited me to play, and so did the other boys at first, but once they found out how incredibly awful at football I was, the teams always fought over who got stuck with me. It got even worse when they found out I was a dancer. I had been performing a piece for Ravil’s ‘inspection’, even though I knew a long time ago that he couldn't be forced to care unless offered a large sum of money. It was also partly to show off. I tried not to show off very often, but Ravil had been bragging nonstop at home about how he had recently perfected bicycle kicking the football backwards into the goal.

Nuroski came running up to us with his little brother, Temir, beside him. Temir was holding the football under one arm.

“Ravil!” He shouted, “Ravil!” His brown eyes were glittering in the sunlight. Nuroski was tall and muscular, more so than he seemed. I stopped in the middle of a fondu tendu  to stare at him. Maybe my superior thigh muscles would intimidate him.

“The others aren't coming today, so we can get that one on one game in! And I’m totally going to win!” Ravil scoffed, “In your dreams. I can destroy you all damn summer!” I groaned. They were so stupid. I rose from the plié and continued on my merry way with the routine. I froze with my arms out to the sides when I heard Nuroski laughing. His laugh sent a white-hot jolt down my spine. It was the humiliating kind.

“The hell are you doing?” He guffawed. I pulled all my limbs back into myself.

“It’s for a recital,” I lied. Ravil looked confused. Nuroski looked like a goon. I was afraid of goons. They swung their fists first and asked questions later. Little guys like me were never safe from goons.

“You’re not very good, though,” Nuroski commented.

“What do _you_ know about ballet?” I asked. I doubted he knew more than the name.

“I know that it’s gay if a boy does it,” he spat. I had never heard the word gay before, and I would ask what it meant, but the way he said it made it sound like an insult. Maybe he was able to tell that my best wasn't very good and that ballet was just a form of entertainment that I wasn't all that serious about.

“So what? It doesn't really matter how good I am to me,” I said. Nuroski looked confused.

“Uh…That’s not what I said.” Ravil interjected. I thanked him internally. There really is a first time for everything.

“Q, he’s too stupid to know what gay means.” Nuroski’s face lit up.

“What? That’s awesome! Don't tell him, okay?” Ravil hesitated. It was such a small hesitation that Nuroski probably didn't notice it.

“‘Course I won't,” He said. I stared at him for a minute.

“Should I leave?” I asked. Nuroski raised his eyebrows and parted his lips slightly. He jerked his neck forward and whispered, “Duh.” So I left. I walked off in the direction of the corner store. I could use some ice cream. While I was walking, I realized that I had forgotten my shoes back at the playground. Oh well. I would be back there in a few minutes anyway. I kept walking to the corner store. I wondered if the cat would be in there today. I’d really like to pet him. Sadly, he didn't particularly like human contact. He was an interesting fellow. I’d seen him on top of a telephone pole once. It was on a street corner and not particularly close to the nearest tree, but somehow he had done it. Maybe it was his ambition in life to be a hawk. If he was in the store today, I would tell him that it was a worthwhile ambition.

I arrived at the corner store and bumped into the pole. I went into the store and was nearly overwhelmed by the air conditioning. Outside, it was the worst kind of heat. It must have been at least thirty four degrees out, and it was humid. Stepping into the store was like stepping into another world. A world where there were no seasons. I would like to live in a world where there was only one season. Then, things wouldn't change just as you had gotten used to them, and you would never have to worry about things like coats and snow boots. The door closed behind me. I was in a world where there were no seasons. The packaging on everything in the store was very colorful and eye catching. I wandered throughout the store for a few minutes, looking from aisle to aisle (There were only three, if memory serves.) in search of some ice cream. I wandered all the way to the back of the store and found both Yosef the cat and a little girl. She was sitting on a stack of cardboard water bottle boxes. She was holding a book in one hand and eating a cookie with the other. The cat was curled in a ball on her lap, and while it’s possible that the air conditioner was just really strong in that area, Yosef sounded like he was purring.

The girl looked familiar, in her ripped jean shorts and red halter top and black crocs. Her hair was held back by a headband. It was long and flowed down her back.

“Can I pet your cat?” I asked. The girl visibly jumped in surprise, but her face didn't change. She held her cookie in her teeth and pulled the book to her chest. She looked down at me and nodded. I reached out to pet Yosef, and he allowed it for a split second before clawing at me.

“He’s not mine,” Said the girl. I looked up at her. Her eyes were hard, even though she looked the same age as me.

“Do you know where the ice cream is?” I asked. She shrugged.

“By the beers.”

I found the beers in the back of the store, and just as promised, there was a cooler of ice cream sitting on the floor next to the beverage cooler. I pushed one of the sliding doors of the cooler open and pulled out an ice pop. I closed the cooler up and went to the counter. Mrs. Polzin raised her head from the small piece of paper she was writing on to glare at me.

“How may I help you?” She did not at all sound like she wanted to help me. I put the popsicle on the counter between us anyway. She cast a glance downwards, and then looked back up.

“Four fifty,” Mrs. Polzin said. I reached for my pockets. Then I realized that I had neither pockets nor any money.

“I don't have four fifty dollars,” I said. Mrs. Polzin pointed at the ice cream cooler.

“Then you don't get your ice cream, kiddo.” I left, but first I said goodbye to Yosef. The girl gave me a judgemental stare while I did so.

“Ayzere,” She said while I was petting Yosef goodbye. I glanced up.

“Otabek,” I said after a moment’s pause. She thrust out one hand. I took it. She had a firm handshake. I left the store after shaking hands with her. I kept thinking about her handshake while I walked back to the playground, and decided that I hated it when people shook your hand half-assed.

Ravil and Nuroski weren't playing football when I walked past again. They were talking to each other instead. I didn't go over to join the conversation. I did, however, notice my green crocs under the bench. I silently thanked Ravil for putting them there. I pulled them out from under the bench and slipped them onto my feet. I kept walking until I was at home. My feet really hurt.

I forgot to ask Ravil what the word gay meant that night, on account of Grandma trying to teach Aliya a new recipe for something that was red and tasted like saccharine peppers. Oh, what a word- saccharine. Maybe I would write it down. I had started writing down my favorite words recently. On the list were ‘erinaceous’, which had inspired the list. It meant something that was like a hedgehog. Anyway, saccharine peppers. Aliya thought it was boring and complex and wound up bleeding all over the cutting board. While Grandma was cooing worriedly over the miniscule cut, I took the time to look at the ingredients. I really liked food, and cooking. It was one of the few things in life that made me feel justified.

Ravil and Grandpa liked the sauce.

It was too hot to sleep that night. The heat felt like it was reaching into the bedroom through the open window and putting a hand to my throat. With every passing moment laying under the covers, it’s grip tightened. Eventually, I kicked off the sheets and lay on my bed with all my limbs stretched out. I tried to go to sleep like that, but there was something off. Maybe it was the position I was in, maybe it was the way my clothes were all scrunched up. The heat became less annoying after I took my shirt off. I was still itchy and sweaty, though. Incredibly so. I felt…almost feverish.

“Ravil?” I asked quietly, and rolled onto my side. He didn't budge. “Ravil?” I repeated. I repeated his name a few more times but he still didn't answer. I stared at the shape of his bed, and listened to his and Aliya’s breathing. I stared at them for a while, and only noticed that I wasn't anymore when my chin hit my chest. I lay awake with my eyes closed for a long time. I couldn't say if I slept or not at all that night. I was somehow more exhausted when I woke up than when I went to sleep. Grandma told me at breakfast that I needed to stop reading all night, because it was bad for my eyes and I would look a mess.

“But I wasn't awake reading,” I said, “I was awake because I couldn't do anything else.” Grandma gave an understanding nod.

“It happens to the best of us.” I spent the morning helping Grandpa fix the car. He told me that he needed me because my arms were like noodles and I could reach places that he couldn't, but he only wound up getting mad at me. I had no idea what half of the words he was saying meant. He told me to get out from underneath the car and to get Ravil. I ran all the way to the playground. Ravil was alone. He was sitting on a swing with his hands in his lap and drawing little circles with the tip of his toe on the ground. He looked peaceful. I almost didn't call his name.

“Ravil!” I shouted. He jerked up from the swing and a heavy blush filled his cheeks. I giggled softly to myself at the wildly surprised look on his face. He stood up and ran over to me on the sidewalk.

“Shut up,” He hissed, and then looked me up and down. “Why are you so dirty?” He asked, in reference to the black sticky stuff that was streaked across my arms, face, and the blue shirt I was wearing. It was completely covering my hands.

“I don't know. I was clean before Grandpa asked me to help him with his car.” Ravil slapped his forehead with his palm.

“Beka, that’s motor grease. Go home and wash it off.”

“But Grandpa told me to come and get you.” Ravil groaned, “I hope he doesn't want me to be his little grease monkey.”

“What does grease monkey mean?” Ravil had already started running home. I followed him, and ran into the house instead of going to the lot where the car was parked. Grandma always yelled at Grandpa for that. She thought that the car should be right outside, for easier access and so that we would be able to tell right away if someone tried to break in.

Covered in a combination of sweat and motor grease, I ran into the open door of the house. I kicked off my crocs and ran further into the house. There was a serious lack of windows, so I was momentarily blinded after having been in the sun for so long. I blinked and stood in the kitchen for a few minutes, waiting for my eyes to adjust. They did, and once they did, I started walking to my room. I bumped into Grandma on my way up.

“Oh my! You’re filthy!” She was in shock.

“Yes, I know.”

“What happened to you?” Grandma asked.

“I was helping Grandpa with his car,” I explained, “Ravil is too right now.” Grandma sighed.

“Go get cleaned up, Otabek.” I did. I ran up the stairs and to my bedroom, where I cast off my shirt. I dragged my suitcase out from underneath my bed and selected a gray shirt. I tugged it on over my head and then ran to the bathroom. I scrubbed my hands over the sink, fascinated by the way the water in the sink turned black. I was also fascinated with how the grease didn't wash out of my hands, even after about twenty minutes of scrubbing. It stayed under my fingernails and in the creases in my skin. It took a while to scrub the grease off of my face, too. I eventually left the bathroom, still covered in streaks of grease. It just wasn't as thick and grimy as before. Grandma scrubbed away the top ten layers of my skin and the grease along with them when I got back downstairs. With my skin buzzing and hurting just a little bit, I went outside to see how Grandpa and Ravil were doing. They were puzzling over the car still. I climbed up to sit on the roof of the car. The view was nice up here.

“Otabek, get off the car!” Grandma shouted. She leaned against the doorframe, and said, “You’ll hurt yourself!” I climbed down. The car was pretty tall, after all. It did hurt a tad when I landed, although I ignored it.

“Paul!” She shouted. Grandpa’s head popped up from the car,

“Yes?”

“Stop getting the boys so filthy. Otabek alone probably greased up their entire room!” Grandpa chuckled,

“A man likes to spend some time with his grandsons, no? Besides, who else is going to teach them how to fix their cars?” Grandpa asked. Ravil shimmied out from under the car. He really was skinny.

“It’s really fun, too!” He commented.

“You’re greasy as hell,” I said. Grandma gestured to Ravil, “See? He’s almost too dirty to come inside!” Grandma crossed her arms smugly, as if she had just won in a court of law.

“Eh, just have him take his clothes off and it’ll be fine. As long as he doesn't touch anything,” Grandpa said. Ravil smiled a huge smile. Grandma scoffed, and uncrossed her arms. “You clean it all up, then.” She went back into the house to do…something. I went inside and found Aliya sitting at the dinner table. She was spreading out a deck of cards. I sat next to her, and looked at the way they were sorted. The smaller cards were closer to her, and the suits were going up and out from the left hand corner. Every time she finished sorting them, she got annoyed with the extra cards that didn't fit into the organization.

“Damn it!” She shouted after her tenth attempt to get them into rows that didn't have thirteen cards in them went awry. She picked up the cardboard box that they came in, which was torn and somewhat wrinkled. It was like the cards- The edges, which were once crisp and straight, were now dull. White was slowly transforming into yellow, just like Grandma’s teeth, only her’s were further down the road. Grandma was leaning against the counter and looking through a tiny book of whatever it was she was looking through.

“Aliya, a lady doesn't curse. Nor does a child your age…” She commented absentmindedly.

“I love to fucking curse,” She said jokingly. Grandma peered down her nose at us. Aliya giggled softly, and recollected the cards.

“How do you play cards?” Aliya asked. Grandma sighed, set the book down, and sat across from me. She tapped the deck,

“Now, I’m not the best person to explain this to you, that’s your Grandfather. But I am pretty good at Blackjack Switch.” She explained the rules, and then asked if we wanted to play.

“Yeah!” Aliya exclaimed. I shrugged. She dealt me in anyway. Something we learned that day was that Aliya was absurdly good at Blackjack Switch and really liked to throw her cards on the rare occasion that she did lose. Out of the ten games that we played, Aliya won six, Grandma won three, and I won one. I wasn't really trying, though. I didn't really care about the game. I was just kind of daydreaming, staring out the window. I was settled into a pleasant mood of not thinking. I played Blackjack Switch with half of my mind, like when you’ve just woken up and you haven’t started thinking yet. I was feeling like that- blissfully empty.

I stayed empty for a while. I don't know if I even blinked. Everything felt so serene and quiet, like this was the only life I’d ever known. My father was not an abusive alcoholic in this reality, and my mother was not a passive aggresive whore for cash. I stayed empty until ballet class. I started to fill up with the movements alone, but it was really Misha talking to me that jarred me out of it.

“Hey, Beka? C-Can I call you that?” Misha asked. He pushed his rust colored hair away from his forehead. It fell right back, but he didn't push it aside again. It was almost long enough to be in a ponytail. Maybe he should get a haircut.

“No,” I said.

“Okay. So, I also figure skate- a-aside from doing ballet, and I think that you’d really like skating. It’s like dancing but there’s a lot more skill involved and it’s really fun, and…and yeah.”

“Okay,” I said. Misha pulled a confused face. He was pulling those faces all the time, as if he was some kind of hotshot.

“Is that a yes or a no?” He asked. I raised my eyebrows. “Sure.” Misha looked annoyed.

“Seriously, are you going to come with me or not?”

“Will I?” I echoed. Misha slapped me gently on the shoulder. It stung. It reminded me how much it hurt to be slapped. I looked up from my stretch and all I saw was my father. His dark eyes were damning. I turned my head down again, staring at my toes.

“Yes.”

“Great!” Misha said. I looked up at him. He had the most happy smile I’d ever seen on his face. He kept talking about ice skating for a while, then about other things. The way Misha talked about nothing was very unique. He made everything sound like it was the most important thing in the world. It was pretty damn hard for me not to listen to everything he said, and it was hard for me to keep a straight face. I was enjoying myself. It was weird. I had never smiled for so long before, and I wasn't entirely fond of the ache in my cheeks. This was the first time that I had someone to stand next to after ballet. Misha waved me off and I found myself asking Grandpa if I could go to the ice skating rink tomorrow, like Misha had said. I rattled off his exact words, and Grandpa said yes.

“It’s high time you’ve made a friend.” I wasn't sure whether to feel insulted or not.

The time we had arranged to meet up at the skating rink was ten o’clock. Grandma was my designated driver, and she was happy that I had made a friend, although she was less enthusiastic about it than Grandpa was. She stood outside, leaning against the car, while I struggled to dress myself. The rink had to be cold enough to have ice in it, so it must be cold. Grandma honked the horn of the car.

“You best hurry up! Or I’ll leave without you!” She hollered playfully. Still, there was an edge to her voice. I wondered how she could sound happy and like she wanted punch somebody at the same time. I gave up on trying to fit a coat on over the puffy vest I was wearing. I threw it on the floor and nearly fell face first onto the concrete while running out the door. I leapt into the car, and the Jeep started up with the turn of the key. My favorite sound in the world was probably the sound of an engine turning over.

“Did you bake a cake on your way out?” Grandma joked. I looked at her in the mirror.

“No.”

“Ah, you’re no fun,” She said. I scowled and added her to the list of people who thought I was no fun. Oh well. At least Misha thought I was fun.

Grandma talked about nothing all the way to the rink. She talked about her knitting and how she was going to make my siblings and I sweaters someday.  The thing that really fascinated me, though, was that Grandpa had been a soldier. I thought the stories about Grandpa’s service were interesting, although they would have been more interesting if it had been him telling them. The knitting talk was about as interesting as waiting for nail polish to dry. I had never worn nail polish yet, but Aliya had for the first time last year. I don't remember why. Maybe the president had come over. I had wound up using that tiny little paintbrush to get the lemon nail polish onto her fingers. It must’ve taken three hours to dry, at which point it no longer looked good. Aliya ended up picking it all off. She hated it, and told me that she would rather dye her hair than paint her nails.

“Otabek?” Grandma asked.

“Hmm?”

“I said, what color do you want your sweater to be?”

“Green.” My automatic response. Green was my favorite color. Forest green, and not the dark color of forest green, no, the color of budding leaves after a hard winter. It had been a hard winter last year, and the trees had looked twice as beautiful as usual.

“Thanks for calling me by my real name,” I said, still thinking about the way leaves looked when they had just grown.

“What else would I call you?” She looked into the mirror, a mischievous look in her eyes.

“H-Hey, Grandma?” I asked. She looked amused.

“I ain’t going anywhere, boy.”

“What does ‘gay’ mean?” Her features hardened a little bit. “I-I’m only asking because Ravil’s friend, N-Nuroski, he called me gay yesterday. Is it a compliment? I wasn't doing anything really-”

“He was insulting you,” Grandma said, “Gay is a nice word for faggot. Faggots are two men get confused and mistake friendship for courtship. It’s disgusting and I find it to be rather offensive.”

“Is it exclusive to men? Can a woman be gay?” Grandma nodded curtly. What that answered, I had no idea. She bit her lip. Why did she look so angry?

“Why do men have to be with women?” I asked. I mean, everybody I knew had a Mama and a Papa, but if it was possible for someone to have two Mamas or two Papas, then why didn't anybody? Grandma looked appalled.

“Men and women…How else would a family be made?” Grandma looked real mad now. Her eyebrows were slanted down towards her eyes and everything. She parked the car outside the rink. The spot was real close to the door.

“I don't know how families are made, but…Thanks, Grandma,” I said, and hopped out. She said something to me, but I didn't hear it. I felt tingly in my chest. It wasn't a good tingly. It was more like someone had reached into my chest and had squeezed my heart really tight. The feeling made my body go all wobbly and put me in no mood to skate. Still, I walked into the rink without a clue of what it was that I was supposed to do. I stood in the middle of the lobby and turned around slowly. I noticed Misha just a moment before he ran over to me. I saw him turn his head boredly, and then smile. He waved his arm and ran over a bit clumsily, on account of running on blades.

“Beka!" He covered his mouth. “Sorry, Otabek. Um, so, do you need to rent skates?” I nodded. Misha grabbed my wrist and lead me to a counter, where I could rent skates.

“So, you want to get figure skates in whatever shoe size you wear,” He said to me. He offered me a handful of money, which I took and used to rent the skates. Misha was impressed by how tiny my feet were. I handed his money back to him and we entered the rink. It wasn't as cold as I had thought it would be. I wound up making several trips to the outside of the rink to deposit my vest and two of the three shirts that I had put on. But aside from that, it was smooth skating. We must’ve stayed there for at least four hours, although being a child my age meant I had no sense of time.

“Wow, you’re really bad at this!” Misha giggled while helping me up from what was at least the fifth fall.

“I’ve never been ice skating before, how do you expect me to be?” I asked. Normally, that question would be asked bitterly, but today, I couldn't keep from smiling. Misha looked surprised.  

“Wait, really?” I nodded. He raised his eyebrows all the way up. His forehead was probably really wrinkled underneath all that hair.

“You’re depraved!” He shouted, as if I had just told him I was ill with the plague. I laughed at that.

By two o’clock, I didn't look like a total idiot. By two o’clock, I was hooked on ice skating. Misha kept asking me if I wanted to go skating, to which I always said yes. It soon became ‘our thing’ to go skating every Friday. When Mama picked us up from our grandparent's house at the end of the summer break, I asked if I could take ice skating lessons. She said yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this car could be systematic, hydromatic, ultramatic- Why, it could be greased lightning!


	4. 2008.1

2008

 

One of the gifts I was given when I turned nine was a metronome. It was from Ravil. I liked to listen to it when I was upset, which happened a lot. I was upset because I couldn't fucking skate the way I was supposed to. Nothing I did was ever perfect. I had yet to land a single jump perfectly. Maybe it was because my ratio of muscle to fat was about even. I wished that there was more time in the day to spend, and I wished that I could be stronger. I also cursed Misha for introducing me to the damn sport. It was like ballet was the gateway drug and figure skating was heroin.

I suppose I would have to say that I owe all that to Misha. He’s a great friend, really. I thought that he was dull as a brick when he first started speaking to me. He never had anything interesting to say and whenever you were in a conversation with him it felt like he was interviewing you. It took me a really long while to realize it, but Misha actually did care about how the weather was affecting you or how you were doing. He wanted happiness to be widespread, and I admired him for that. The thought of going up to a guy I had barely spoken to before and talking to him about damn near everything had me shaking in my boots. It would be terrifying for me to do that. It daunted me almost as much as the idea of trying to befriend Nuroski, who had started coming over to our house- be it our grandparents house or Mama’s house- more often lately. Ravil said it was because they would be going to the same high school next year and were really excited to join the football team. I didn't see the appeal to football, honestly. I mean, I knew how to play and all, but I couldn't see why it was so popular. It also annoyed me becasuse there didn't seem to be much skill involved. How could you know what you were doing if it was a fundamentally anarchical game? How did everybody who showed up to play just magically know the rules?

“That’s why I like skating and dancing instead of other sports,” I explained to Mama. She shrugged, and turned her eyes back to the road in front of us. There was minimal traffic and we were going very fast. I didn't think Ravil had his seatbelt on. It’s not like I cared, though. I was bust planning out a routine for ice skating on Sunday. My class was supposed to choreograph a short piece based around an animal. I had chosen a leopard. I really liked leopards. Their eyes were so big and beautiful. They were slender and graceful animals. There were no chance encounters with leopards- they were only seen when they wanted to be seen. Or in zoos. Especially because they were nocturnal. Man, would I like to see a leopard at night. I wanted to have a staring contest with a leopard. I wanted to stare into the eyes of death and say, “How are you?”

I had a vague outline of what was going to happen in my head when we arrived at Grandma and Grandpa’s house, and needed to write it down immediately. We went through the average business of unloading suitcases from the car with the help of Grandma and Grandpa- everything went as usual until a medium sized white dog came flying out of their house. The dog ran straight at Ravil, and started excitedly jumping around him and sniffing. The dog began barking. All of this made Ravil shout in alarm and drop his backpack. He let go of the handle to his suitcase and put his hands out to embrace the hound.

“What’s their name?” I asked.

“Pooja!” Grandma said with a smile on her face. I went over to pet Pooja, but she didn't notice me. She was very excited by Ravil. I brought his bag into the entry area. The first day was always a lot of hauling things places and getting accustomed to the different smell in Grandma and Grandpa’s house. Theirs smelled more like someone was cooking- maybe because their climate control was made up of open windows and nothing else. At least at home we had a giant, hulking air conditioner in the window of the living room. It made a noise like a buzz saw.

After everything, Pooja included, was in the house, we went outside to hug Mama. Aliya had jumped into her arms and caused her to fall backwards and hit her head on the car. It was like a stab to the chest that only lasted a second to see her get hurt. Mama groaned and dropped Aliya, and rubbed the back of her head. She was wincing slightly.

“Are you okay, Inzhu?” Grandma asked. Mama nodded, laughing softly.

“I’m fine, mom,” She said, “You just need to be a bit more gentle, Aliya.” Aliya made the same motion as before, but this time, she did it incredibly slowly. Mama and I laughed, and Grandma chuckled softly. I hugged Mama now. I wrapped my arms around her waist and held her tight. She gasped softly, and hugged me back after a few moments. I wished I could hug a parent more. I wished that the warmth and smell of Mama could be there more. Ravil laughed softly, and hugged me and Mama from the side. I wasn't warm anymore. Aliya wrapped us all up in a big embrace from the other side. Her hair tickled my cheek.

“I love you,” Mama whispered.

“By you, she means me,” Ravil said. I pulled one of my arms out of the familial conglomeration to punch him in the kidney. He groaned in pain and punched me back. I swiftly kicked his shin with the top of my foot. It somehow wound up hurting the both of us. My foot stung. We both hissed and broke apart.

“I was about to tell you boys to stop fighting, but I guess that’s not necessary,” Grandma said. I nodded, and scampered up the steps into the house. There was white hair everywhere. Pooja was feeling at home, then. I grabbed my suitcase and dragged it up to the bedroom. I laid down on my telescope sheets. I was very tired despite having done nothing all day. It was then that I remembered that I had to write down my ideas for the leopard dance. I did just that, and then wandered downstairs to help Ravil and Aliya bring their bags upstairs.

“I’m going to watch TV,” Ravil announced. He thundered down the stairs. Aliya followed, and not long after, you could hear them arguing throughout the house about who they thought was going to win a football match. I wandered downstairs, and saw a bunch of figures running around on a football pitch.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Euro cup. Russia and Greece,” Ravil responded from his spot on the couch. Grandpa sat down next to him.

“Who’s winning?” He asked. Ravil pointed at the part of the screen where the score was displayed. It was zero to zero.

“Tied at nothing,” He mumbled. I stood behind the couch, trying to pay attention to the game, but it was so hard when nothing was happening. Instead, I worked on my splits. They were hard for me to do because there wasn't very much flexibility in my legs. I hated that I was less flexible than the other kids in my various flexibility-requiring classes. It wasn't by much. It was just that some kids could sit down and stick their leg out in front of them, then reach a good distance past their toes and grab one of their wrists, while I was stuck grabbing the edges of my heels and calling it a day.

As it turned out, Aliya was the loudest sports viewer out of the three of them. She scream-chanted for Greece to miss and cursed out their players at every opportunity. When the game was over, dinner was served.

“What was the score?” Grandma asked. Ravil opened his mouth to answer, but Aliya beat him to it.

“Russia won, one nothing!” She shouted. A huge, cheek-splitting smile had graced her face. It made me smile.

“Why do you always cook these big meals on our first night here?” I asked, gesturing to everything that was laid out on the table. There were two things I would consider a main dish and a some other little things, like lox. I had had it for the first time at Misha’s house a few weeks ago and I had decided that lox was my new favorite food. There was also a bowl of salad, and cups of beer in front of Grandma and Grandpa.

“Why do you care? You only have beshbarmak and lox on your plate,” Ravil pointed out. He had a loaded plate, although about half of it was salad and the other half was meat.

“Sit up straight,” Grandma commented. I sat up straighter and picked a caper off of the lox. I observed it for a while before popping it in my mouth.

“You’re a weird one,” She said. She stared at me as if she wanted an explanation.

“Yup,” I said. Grandma rolled her eyes and turned her attention to the others, who were animatedly talking about the football match. They were currently gushing about the Russian goalkeeper. Grandma turned back to me. Her hair was peeking out a little bit from her hijab today. It was a nice salt and pepper color.

“So I finished your sweaters,” She said. She noticed that I was staring at her hair, and tucked it aside.

“You have pretty hair,” I said. She raised me an eyebrow, but not in a patronizing way like usual. I looked at Grandpa’s hair. His hair was mostly dark, but there were parts  where there were major gray streaks. He wore big round glasses and had a wrinkled face, although Grandma’s was more wrinkled. I liked wrinkled faces, especially when their wrinkles were around the eyes. I wanted wrinkles around my own eyes, and I wanted them to look like spiderwebs.

“That’s nice,” I said, and imagined myself as a leopard with a spiderweb like pattern. In a hand-knit sweater, of course.

“Mm. Ravil’s is blue and Aliya’s is pink.” I didn't care about her sewing. I didn't care. It was starting to make me angry that I cared less about my own grandmother than I did how strong my thighs were. I picked up a slice of salmon and put it in my mouth. She had made the salmon for me specifically. I think. I had told her that I really liked it at my ninth birthday party. It made me angry that even still, I would rather punch my grandmother in the face than hear her talk about those goddamn sweaters for another minute. I didn't care about the colors or even about their very existence. I just wanted to practice my leopard routine and read a book and then sit down and talk to Misha about everything. I don't know what it was about him, but I really trusted him. He was about the only real friend I had and the only person who I told everything to.

Maybe I would invite Misha to this house instead of going to his house all the time. He would like the dogs, one of which was resting it’s head on my lap. It was either Arman or Pooja, because Ainia was far to small to get her head onto someone’s lap while they were sitting in a chair. She would have to be standing on her hind legs and be resting her front legs on on someone’s thighs to be able to rest her head on their lap. I looked under the table to find that it was Pooja. I smiled at her and stroked her head under the table. She was very soft. Maybe the softest dog I’d ever had the pleasure of petting. Her eyes were huge and brown, like a leopard’s.

After dinner, I decided to show Aliya my routine. She thought that it was boring and flouncy, up until the part where I did a cartwheel. She thought that that was pretty cool. I didn't know if I would actually be able to do a cartwheel on ice, seeing as I had never done it before. I was barely able to do a cartwheel off ice. Aliya eventually got bored and left to go play with cards or something. I practiced my cartwheels for a while. My feet started hurting real fast because I had no idea how to gently land a cartwheel. I decided to throw in the towel after about a half hour of practicing and start practicing the leopard skate. I was mad about how bad I was at it. I had done it three times before I failed to land a jump. Most of the jumps that existed were impossible off ice, but since these were only singles and doubles, I had thought that maybe I wouldn't fail too badly. Who was I kidding? I was a failure anyway, with my never-perfect rotations and occasionally shoddy landings.

My landing involved my toes bending instead of staying straight, which caused me to be standing on one foot. Not even one foot, one set of toe knuckles that didn't do a whole lot in the field of helping a person stay balanced. I tumbled to the side and scraped up my calf and from the top of my opposite hip to my ribs. There were also a few scratches on the backs of my shoulders. I laid there and breathed for a few moments. My scrapes stung pretty bad, and so did my toes. Maybe the ground had decided to light just those bits of me on fire. If that was the case, why wasn't I going up in flames?

I sat up, and looked at myself. The scrape on my calf was bleeding, although it was mostly comprised of a series of angry red lines that were very close to each other. The lines weren't particularly fine, and blurred together in the middle.

“Fuck,” I mumbled, and reached out to touch the red spot. As soon as my fingers touched the spot, the fire grew larger. I hissed softly and yanked my hand away. I fanned the cut with my hands. It did nothing other than waft the warm air around. I would have to run cold water over it. I then pulled my shirt up and looked down at the side of my body. The scrape there was less intense. It was mostly a very dark pink around my ribs, and only with a little bit of blood. I would have to wait to see my shoulders until I got inside. I looked down at my red leg again. The blood was glinting in the dying light. Maybe that was what the other side of the sunset looked like.

I pushed myself up and went inside. Grandma noticed my scratch right away, and gasped as if the world had suddenly decided to have another war.

“Beka, what did you do to yourself?” She fussed, running over to me. I loathed that nickname.

“Don't call me Beka. And, I’m fine, I just screwed up while practicing,” I explained. I cringed at how whiny my voice sounded. Grandma picked me up and carried me over to the sink.

“I can walk on my own, Grandma,” I protested. Why was I still so whiny?! She plopped me on the counter next to the food sink. A drop of blood landed on the stainless steel. I wondered if any animals had ever been slaughtered in this sink.

“Nonsense, you’re hurt! Now, let’s get you all patched up. Put your feet in the sink.” I obeyed. Grandma went off to the cupboard to get some band-aids and a dark brown bottle. Aliya came running into the kitchen.

“Ooh, you’re bleeding!” She exclaimed excitedly, “Can I touch it?!”

“Only this part,” I said, gesturing to the trail that was running down my leg. Grandma turned the sink on and pulled my calf under the flow of water. I hissed when the water touched the raw part of the injury. It stung, but in a good way.

“That’s what you get,” Aliya said, and crossed her arms. She had fallen down outside a lot more than I had. Most of my experiences with pain only involved bruises and blisters and paper cuts.

“Oh, hush now, and hand me the brown bottle,” Grandma said, and turned off the tap. Aliya picked up the bottle.

“Hydrogen peroxide,” She read, “What’s that?” Grandma pulled the bottle out of Aliya’s hands and opened the cap.

“It makes injuries get better faster,” She explained, “Grab me a paper towel.” I leaned over backwards and stretched across the counter to grab a paper towel.

“Aren't I too old to be getting patched up like this?” I asked. I could feel the blush on my cheeks. It was embarrassing to be almost ten and still be getting cleaned up in the sink. Grandma was in the midst of holding the paper towel, now folded up, to the rim of the bottle as if it were the cap. She was holding the upside down, so as to soak the paper towel in the hydrogen peroxide. She flipped it right side up again and handed the towel to Aliya while she screwed the cap back on and set the bottle down on the

“You’re still small enough,” Aliya snickered. I punched her shoulder.

“I’m bigger than you!”

“Barely!” She giggled. Grandma pulled my leg out of the sink and held the towel to the cut. I gasped at how much it stung.

“Are you sure you’re not making it worse?” I asked, while she rubbed at my injury with the paper towel. It really stung. It was like I was being scraped all over again, but this time with a flaming stick. I wondered if the hydrogen peroxide was flammable. I hoped that it wasn't.

“This is going to make it hurt less in the future,” Grandma said, “It’ll hurt more if it gets infected.” She pulled the towel off of my skin and then began to unwrap one of the band aids. She flattened it onto my leg, covering almost the entire scrape. She pulled my leg up to kiss the spot where it was hurt.

“There. All better.” Actually, it still ached and stung. But whatever. I didn't know much about the way the human body worked. Maybe I would make that the next thing I read about. It seemed like an interesting topic. I pivoted on the counter, in order to hop off of it. My shirt went tight against the scrapes on my back and I winced.

“Are you okay?” Grandma asked. I nodded.

“Just another scrape,” I said, and pulled my shirt up to show off the scrape on my

side. There was a tiny crease in my skin around my hips that I would send to hell if I could. No matter how much I worked to get rid of it, the fat remained.

“Otabek, what did you do?” Grandma asked, at the same time as Aliya said,

“You’re more of a badass than I thought.” I punched Aliya’s shoulder again.

“Stop that! What did you do to yourself?” Grandma asked again.

“I was practicing my leopard dance,” I explained. She just rolled her eyes and pulled my shirt off. It shouldn't have felt as cold as it did on my arms and chest, but it did. I crossed my arms and held onto my little biceps. It was embarrassing to have my family see all the ways I was ugly and imperfect. Grandma started rubbing my shoulders and the side of my body with the towel. I didn't complain, or at least, I tried not to. The liquid felt like it was cutting me deeper than the actual scrapes. After I was all bandaged up, I was allowed to put my shirt back on. It was a faded blue color and had a picture of a whale on the front. It was my favorite shirt.

I went back upstairs, and when I was in my room, I pulled a book out of my backpack. It was about a boy named Harry Potter. He shared a name with the book. Misha had been raving about how good it was the last time I was in the book store. He had said I would like it since I liked a lot of European fairy tales. I really liked the Grimm’s Fairy Tales. They were my favorites, and my favorite story out of all of those was _Hansel and Gretel_. I would like it if there was another story published just about the mother, and how she felt about sending her children away. Then again, it would also be good to see another book about the witch and how eating all those children affected her body. I had heard once that cannibalism was bad for you. Maybe it was because of the fat in people’s bodies, or maybe their hair. Then again, witches might not even be human. It could be that the evil witch wasn't even evil. Or a witch. She could just be an abusive farmer. Maybe in her sequel the witch and the mother would get redemption arcs. That would be nice. I, for one, would like an explanation as to why exactly they were painted as villains. If people were witch food and the mother really couldn't afford to have the kids around, who was actually doing the wrong thing? Maybe they did it because they had to, or maybe they were cruel.

The next day, I asked Misha what he thought about it. He shrugged.

“It’s a pretty bad thing to wish death on somebody,” He said. He fell into a split. I admired that he was just casually able to do that. It was one of the few times that I was taller than him. Others included when we were sitting down together. Our torsos were roughly the same size. He owed all of his height to his legs.

“But what if you had no other choice? Like, if you had to save somebody and had to choose between your kids,” I said, and tried to fall into a split of my own. Both of my legs were bent too much to consider it a split. I sat straighter and looked at Misha. He was leaning forward to grab at the knee on his forward leg. It was unfair that he was so tall and naturally flexible, and that his hair was so…good looking. I wondered why I thought that.

“I see your point. But the mom is totally a bitch, and the witch is definitely not a good person.”

“How do we know she’s even human, though?” I asked.

“Because…Good point. So, you’re saying that she’s basically just being a dick when she could be a vegetarian instead?” I nodded.

“Pretty much.” I tried again at the split.

“You’re getting better!” Misha exclaimed, and applauded quietly. He was right. My front leg was almost perfectly straight this time. I was still a failure, though.

After class, we went into the bookstore to wait for Grandma to come and drive me to figure skating. Misha asked how I was doing in that class and I told him about my leopard skate idea. He told me that I was sure to be amazing no matter what I did. That made me feel a little weird. I was blushing.

“You’re just saying that because you’re my friend. I can improve a lot,” I said. Misha raised an eyebrow.

“I’m coming to see you perform. Then we’ll see how bad of a skater you are,” Misha said, and tapped me on the nose.

“Don't do that!”

“Is there any small gesture to show affection that doesn't annoy you?” He asked, “You hate nicknames, you don't like high fives, you deflect compliments like a badass, and now nose tapping is off the list of what’s okay?” I shrugged. I felt naked.

“Nicknames sound fake, high fives are pointless, just like nose tapping, and I know that my skating isn't all that good because I never get told that it’s good,” I said. It didn't help me feel any less naked. In fact, it made me feel even more naked. Misha smiled at me.

“You’re a cool guy, Otabek, but you can be pretty annoying yourself sometimes.”

“Shut up.” Misha laughed at that. He shut up after that, though. At figure skating class, I showed my leopard performance to the teacher. She was unimpressed. I knew that she would be, of course, although I didn't think that she would be so disappointed in my cartwheel and forward roll.

“Otabek, you want to be successful as a skater, don't you?” She asked.

“Yes. I want to be one when I grow up,” I said. She looked at me appraisingly.

“So why did you do a cartwheel and a somersault? The epitome of this sport is grace, and you just aren't graceful,” She said, “Plus you’re lacking in flexibility.”

“I know.”

“You need to be less angry when you skate, and put some emotion into the performance. If you’re not graceful, then you have to practice being graceful. Learn how to move like water. Okay?” I nodded, and she skated off to help another student.

It wasn't fair that I practiced so hard and was still getting nowhere. I growled at myself, and punched the scrape on my hip. It made me let out a small cry of pain. I breathed deeply, and started to skate around the rink. I made slow circles, and decided that it was time to start over and try again. With the music in my head, I started to sway and drag my arms through the air as if I were a conductor before an orchestra. In my head, I was a leopard, sneaking up behind it’s prey. I was stalking and making myself invisible. I was popping out and inciting fear in a rodent of some sort. I was powerful in my head.

It became time to move faster. I stopped moving my arms slowly through the air, and pulled them to my sides. This part was more of a tap dance than any other form of dance, but it involved more spins. I liked spinning on ice, although sometimes it made me get migraines. I launched myself into the first jump, which was a loop. I over rotated so much that it became a double. I supposed that was good. Had this been an actual competition, I would just be gaining more points, although it was different from what I had been trying to do. It may have been a well done double loop, but I still counted it as a failure.

I dove into the forward roll and as soon as I had popped back to my feet, I jumped into a double axel. I fell down instead of landing. I hadn't come up from the forward roll very well.

I rose from the ice and started the cartwheel. I landed it perfectly and jumped into another axel. This time, it was a single. That was okay. That was what it was supposed to be. In fact, the jump went very well. The rotation was spot on. I smiled to myself and spread my legs. I was slowing down, which was good. I was supposed to be slowing down. I resumed the tall spine and cantilever arms as I moved about, bringing my legs in together and then apart a few times.

I sunk down into a squat and while spinning, and then came back up to stand. I was still spinning, although not extremely much. With a few final swoops of my arms, I ended the performance. The final pose had my legs shoulder width apart and my hands out in front of me. I was making claws out of my fingers and pressing the heels of my hands together. I was also panting quite heavily.

My performance hadn't been particularly awful, but I was still far from graceful. I punched my thigh.

“Damn it.”

After failing to be graceful at least five times, class was over. I stared across the lobby at a group of hockey players who were meeting up while I waited for Grandma to show up. When she did, we went into the car together. She didn't make a comment when I sat in the front seat.

“You’re going to need a bath when we get home,” She mumbled. When we got home, I did some cool down stretches on the living room floor. I did them in front of the TV on purpose, so that Ravil would get mad. I smirked at him when he told me to go spread my crotch out somewhere else. I did finish, though, and went upstairs to take a bath as soon as I did. The warm water made my scrapes sting pretty badly, and the soap made the pain increase tenfold. But, like everything, it ended eventually. I got out of the bath and redressed myself. After redressing, I decided to read that Harry Potter book.

I finished it in a single day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Cause this is filler, filler night!


	5. 2008.2

I had never been as nervous as I was when I was cramming my skates into their bag on Sunday. They never fit, but today it seemed like they fit in less than usual. Grandma honked the horn of the car. I sighed angrily and threw the bag on the floor. I held my skates in one hand and ran out the door, slamming it behind me. I threw the door open and hopped into the car. I had barely closed the door before she stepped on the gas and started driving. 

“Grandma!” I gasped, and fell to the side. My skates were on the floor due to her pulling the car out of the driveway so fast.

“Well, you don't want to be late, do you?” She asked. She was definitely speeding. 

“Crashing is worse than being late!” 

“I know how to drive fast without crashing,” She said. The trick was slowing down when you got halfway to your destination. I could breathe again. I picked my skates up from the floor, and shoved away a plastic bag with a ball of yarn inside. It still had a piece of cardstock wrapped around it. I set my skates down in the place of the bag and tried to breathe deeply. It felt like my lungs were too small. I told myself to calm down, and that I couldn't fail too badly. Still, all my joints felt like they were about to pop right off. I had never performed in front of a group of people this large before, at least not on the ice. So what if the ‘group of people’ was made up of ten kids and maybe their parents? If it was new, it tended to be scary. 

Grandma pulled into the parking lot next to the rink. Had the car ride always been this short? I grabbed my skates, and pushed the door open. 

“Nervous?” She asked. I nodded.

“You’ll do what you can. There’s nothing better you can do,” She said. It felt like a punch to the stomach. I knew what she was trying to say, but I couldn't help feeling like she was insulting me. I would rather she just tell me I wouldn't be able to show a group of maybe fifteen people what little I could do. 

“Okay.” We walked into the rink. It was so much colder than outside. I ran off to the changing rooms and leaned down to touch my toes. There were some other people around my own age in there too, talking about their own routines and stretching their own limbs out. There was this one girl, Leyla, and I swore that every part of her body was double jointed. Her hips, her fingers, her knees- you name it, every part of her body had a very impressive range of motion. She was currently doing a split on the ground and braiding her hair. I couldn't help but glare at her. I could totally do that if genetics hadn't screwed me over. 

I spread my legs to shoulder width and continued to stretch my hamstrings. I remembered my ballet instructor telling the class one time that there was a tendon in your hip, and if it snapped, you would be left a cripple for life. That scared the absolute shit out of me. If my tendons were to break, I’d go insane. I would be trapped in a wheelchair and have nothing to do all day. I mean, I could try to be a wheelchair stunt rider. That might be cool, although my biceps were pretty wimpy. My entire body was pretty wimpy. I wasn't strong enough yet. 

Time was up before it began, and it was time for the class performances. A boy named Rostam went first, and he was an absolute train wreck that looked absolutely nothing like a dragon. I felt bad for thinking like that, because I looked absolutely nothing like a leopard. Some other kids went, and they were all really good. Leyla even had a triple in her routine. I couldn't keep from gasping. She had to be some sort of prodigy! How the hell was I supposed to become a professional if I was going to be compared to her?! Watching her move made me realize that she was everything that I wasn't. She had perfect command of her body, and landed every jump perfectly. 

After the class discussed the flaws in a girl’s program- she hadn't embodied a bear at all- it was my turn. I skated out in front of everybody. 

“My inspiration was leopards,” I said. My voice was all high pitched and weird and sounded like a girl’s. I didn't sound like me. But whatever. It wasn't like I was about to sing. I started the swooping arm motions and graceful sliding about. If I could do that part perfectly, it would make my life a whole lot better. Well, not really. It would just make me feel a bit better about myself. I had to reach that point. 

I began the tap dance-esq part, using one foot to move and the other to tap the ice. I switched feet, and sank down into a spin. I straightened my legs after a rotation and did the first jump. My heart leapt at the landing- I had got it just right! The rotation was absolutely perfect, the only thing wrong with the way I had done it was that my left arm had flown out and away from my body! I found myself smiling as I dove forwards onto the ice, and even more so when I heard my classmates gasping. 

As soon as I was on my feet I turned to the left and jumped into the double axel. It was a bit under rotated, but other than that, everything was perfect. I decided to put a bit of distance between the landing and the cartwheel. I jumped into it a little bit later. While I was in the handstand, my feet bumped into each other and fell. I landed in a lunge with the sides of the blades touching the ice and an overstretched muscle in my right side. I didn't notice the slight ache until after I was standing on the wall with everybody else again, though. 

My fingers were cold and the balls of my hands hurt when I clenched my fists. My arms came into an x shape on my chest as I leapt into the other axel. I landed a bit awkwardly and one of my knees bent in a way that it definitely wasn't supposed to. I pulled that leg off the ground for a moment and got my leg back the way it was supposed to be. I spread my legs, and then brought them together again. I carved the infinity symbols-like pattern into the ice again, and finally froze with my feet shoulder width apart and my arms out in front of me with the heels of my hands touching. I could barely breathe. I was excited and nervous and wanted to punch air. 

To break the moment of silence more than my heavy breathing, the instructor started  _ clapping _ for me. _ Clapping _ . The other students started clapping as well. The applause sounded like shattering ice, and made me feel like I was still up in the air. 

“Thank you!” I shouted, and hurried back to my spot on the wall. I hardly noticed the others critiquing my performance. I didn't really care what they thought, because even though I probably looked like an overgrown teddy bear that didn't know how to skate, it had left me feeling better than I ever had. Physically, of course. On an emotional level, I would slap that performance in the face. It had been show off-y and awful. Once the rest of the class had performed, we started working individually on various jumps that we did not accel at. I started working on my salchow, which was practically nonexistent. I fell down nearly every time I attempted one for the rest of the hour. 

When class was over, we left the rink. There was a crowd of people waiting there to be let onto the rink for the public skating hours. I went back into the locker rooms with everybody else. There was quiet chatter while everybody took their skates off and put them in their bags. Some people left after that, and some stayed behind to stretch. After I took my skates off, I bent over forward in another futile attempt to touch the ground. As you could have guessed, I didn't flatten my palms to the floor in front of my feet. I touched the tips of my fingers to my ankles. 

“Fuck you!” I whispered at my legs, and stood up. I pulled one of my elbows back behind my head, and wound up stretching out the newly formed scab on my shoulders a little bit. I liked the feeling. I wondered if I could stretch out so much that it would cause my skin to rip open. I wondered what the ripping pattern would look like. Maybe it would look the way lips do when they get chapped. I didn't want my back to look like lips. 

I left the changing room and wandered back out into the lobby. For the second time, I saw Misha before he saw me. Mostly because he was so tall and had carrot colored hair. The sight of him made me freeze in my tracks and my blood run cold. He was talking to my grandmother, too which made everything worse. They looked happy. Maybe I could leave the building and hide next to the car. No, Grandma would yell at me for that, and Misha would be disappointed. His eyes, which were already downright huge, got even bigger when he was sad. He had used that face to get me to buy him stuff at times. Well, a time. We had been at a street fair and he had wanted to buy a kebab but didn't have any money. After three minutes of pleading with the face of a puppy who looked like it had just been kicked, I caved and used everything I had in my pockets to pay for it. 

“I hope you’re happy,” I grumbled. Misha tore off a piece of chicken and handed it to me. He thought that I was pissed off because I hadn't gotten any kebab, though. I was actually pissed because of how easily I had given in and put the money on the table. I was ‘Mr. Unsmiley,’ after all. 

Anyway, Misha noticed me not long after I froze and started staring at him with my jaw on the floor. He smiled and waved. I would have turned around and left if I could. But now Grandma was looking over at me, and she had an aloof grin on her face. I forced myself to walk over to them. It probably looked like there was someone pushing me towards them. 

“Hello, friend,” I said with the utmost bitterness in my voice. Misha grabbed my hands. I could feel his heartbeat against my thumb. He could probably feel mine, which wasn't a great thing because my heart was still beating fast, for some reason. 

“Otabek, you were really good!” 

“I was not.” 

“But you were! That cartwheel was so cool, and- and-” I ripped my hands away from his. 

“It was unprofessional, that’s what it was!” I shouted, and then covered my mouth. It was against my life’s philosophy to be loud in a public place. Misha was smiling a big dopey smile at me. I didn't like it, although it was mostly because I didn't like dopes. If there was a particular dope I didn't like, though, it would be this one girl in my class at school. She didn't seem to understand sarcasm, which meant that it was quite hard for us to communicate at times.   

“Think what you want, but I think you were really good,” Misha said. I was red in the face, I could tell. I opened my mouth to speak, but the words didn't come out. That’s okay, though. There weren't any in my head. 

“Shut up,” I mumbled instead. There was a lapse momentarily, in which Grandma looked at me as if I were a shrew. I had been looking at Misha at first, but then stared at the ground. I lifted my left knee so that just my toes were touching the ground and started to roll my ankle. I needed to say something, now. There was still nothing in my head. Misha did my job for me and resurrected the conversation by reaching up and grabbing my ears.

“The fuck are you doing?!” I shrieked. Damn. Going against my life’s philosophy twice in the same conversation. That’s gotta be a record. Now, if only I completely understood my life’s philosophy, that would be great.

“Your ears are so cute when you’re embarrassed!” Misha squealed, and then let go of my ears. “Sorry,” He said. He looked just as embarrassed as I did, probably. He had good reason to; he had made us look like fools. He couldn't see, but Grandma was shooting me a disdainful glare. 

“Yes, Beka, you did well. A bit ridiculous, but good all the same.” She was like a hawk.

“I could have been better,” I mumbled. Misha rolled his eyes. 

“Stop tearing yourself down! Tell me what you liked about it!” 

“Um, well, the forward roll was fun. So was the cartwheel,” I mumbled. Misha clapped me on the shoulder. Grandma interjected,

“There is never a time when you are the best at what you’re doing. There’s always someone better, and always someone worse,” She said, “Could you wrap it up soon?” Misha turned back to face her.

“Actually, I was wondering if we could, I dunno, go somewhere?” Her eyes narrowed. She was calling him an idiot. 

“Where?” Misha shrugged, and flipped the corners of his mouth down. 

“We could walk the dogs,” I said. Misha’s eyes lit up. 

“Yes! That!” He said, and pointed at me. Grandma nodded, and gestured towards the doors. 

“As long as I won't get in trouble for child abduction,” She muttered. 

“Oh, my mom knows I’m here!” Misha said. Grandma sniffed and lead the way to the car. She unlocked the car and put the key in the ignition whilst me and Misha got seated in the back. He found the ball of yarn by accidentally kicking it a few times. He picked up and sang nursery rhymes to it all the way to my grandparents’ house. He said that he would go on to raise the yarn as his child.

“You idiot,” I said when he began, but eventually found myself humming along. 

“See, you do like them!” He cooed, and pretended to burp the ball of yarn. I glared at the rearview mirror. More specifically, at the lines on Grandma’s forehead. I wondered how forehead lines got there. I knew that they got extra wrinkly when she raised an eyebrow. How many times must she have raised her eyebrow to get permanent lines on her face from it? It was all pretty strange, if you ask me. Grandma was glaring at the road as she drove, which wasn't entirely uncommon. Maybe that was where the lines on her face came from. If that was the case, I would have a very wrinkled glabella by the time I was twenty. 

She parked the car in front of the house, and pulled the key out of the car. I unbuckled my seatbelt, and Misha followed suit. He laid the ball of yarn down on the bench seat.

“Goodnight, sweetie,” He cooed. 

“Bring that inside, I need it for a project,” Grandma said. I hoped the project wasn't more articles of clothing. The green sweater she had made for me lived up to it’s name. Inside that sweater must’ve been hotter than the surface of the sun. And a lot itchier, too. When I took it off, there were little marks all over my chest and arms from where I had been scratching. It was kind of embarrassing, in all truth. Not only was mine itchy and incredibly hot, it was too small. Aliya’s and Ravil’s were the right size. That is, up until Aliya decided that long sleeves were lame and used the kitchen scissors to cut everything past the elbow off. I had helped her sew the frayed edges back up. Grandma had wanted her to learn how to sew and knit and the like, but I had been the one who was more interested in designing and making clothing. She was a bit disgruntled by the fact, and said that I could learn how to sew and knit, as long as Aliya also did. Aliya was taught but never learned. If there was a competition for how many times a person could prick their fingers with a sewing needle or lose their thread while knitting, Aliya would win gold every time. 

“I just don't get knitting,” She said. 

“What about sewing?” I asked. She waved her hand dismissively. 

“The needles are too pointy.” I told her to use a thimble, but she said that she didn't want to sacrifice thumb mobility. I saw her point, I just thought that it was illogical. 

Anyway, Misha and I got out of the car and went into the house. Misha was still nursing his yarn baby. He set it down on an end table just inside the door. That table was a mess. It was covered in miscellaneous domestic stuff, like bills and sticky notes, a plastic cup, some receipts, a phone book, and a bowl that was full of money and keys but had long since been invaded by the other contents of the table. There was also a bunch of foreign currency on that table too. Grandpa always brought back money from another country whenever he was in one. They were in a scrapbook in his and Grandma’s bedroom. I had looked in there last summer and he had money from America, Belarus, Ukraine, Russia, Uzbekistan, Nepal, Afghanistan, and Greece. 

I toed off my shoes and set down my skating bag. Grandma walked into the house, probably to tell Grandpa that he could continue to watch the Euro cup with Ravil and Aliya instead of getting up from his armchair to walk the dogs. 

“Isn't it counterintuitive to take your shoes off right before going on a walk?” Misha asked. I stuck my tongue out at him, just before Pooja introduced herself by running over. I stroked her head, but she wasn't all that interested in me. She barked and sniffed at Misha. Her tail was waving excitedly. 

“Hi!” He said, and grabbed her face. “Who are you?” He was cooing again. It was annoying.

“Pooja,” I said. I bent down to find the leashes, which were underneath the end table. I grabbed them and ventured further into the house. Misha started to follow me, with Pooja behind him. Arman and Ania were laying around in the living room with everybody else. Everybody else included Nuroski now, too. 

“Arman! Ania!” I called their names, trying to be louder than the already very loud announcer’s voice on the television. The dogs looked up. I clicked my tongue and whistled, and eventually had to resort to cooing to get them to come over to me. Misha joined me in my cooing and the dogs were lured. 

“Could you two shut up? Thanks,” Nuroski said. I scowled at him. 

“Dick,” I mumbled, and bent down to attach the leashes to the dogs’ collars. Misha took the last one from me and fixed it to Pooja’s collar. We left the house, and as soon as we did, Misha took Pooja’s leash from me. I tried to take her back, but Misha just took Arman’s leash. I was left with just Ania trotting along next to me. 

“They’re my dogs; I can walk them,” I told him. Misha shook his head, 

“I can't hear you,” He sang playfully. I took the leashes from him, although we got a bit tangled up with the transfer of Arman’s leash. 

“You’re no fun,” Misha stated.

“Why do you say that?” I asked. He looked at me.

“Well, you’re not exactly ‘no fun,’ you just don't like a lot of things I think are fun. Like nicknames. I should be calling you Mr. Future Superstar after seeing you skate.”

“Drop it already!” I said. I smiled even though I was ashamed of myself. I could never be a superstar. I wasn't graceful, and there was no way around that. I could never be as incredible as Leyla or Misha- They were naturally graceful and flexible. They had better command of their bodies than I did, by a long shot. I was stuck with short limbs that were too heavy to do anything. I should just give up and start a sport that emphasized what I did have- power. Maybe ice hockey. The thought of playing hockey made me shiver inside. I would have to be surrounded by goons and dopes all day. It would kill me. But still, I didn't belong on the ice or in some studio. My body just wasn't right for it. I would have to make it right. I was already trying really hard at home each day. I practiced my flexibility, although getting over natural selection wasn't easy. I wanted the muscles in my legs to show in more than just a few faint lines, but I was just too fat. In short, the way I was born absolutely sucked. 

I worked so hard to get everything right, and I really did want to stay in the field when I got older. It would be nice to get to compete with other people. Of course, I would have to spend a lot of time training, but it would be worth it. Some day. That’s something else I hated. The promise of ‘someday’. It’s really a piece of vague wording designed to get your hopes up and gives you nothing in return. At least, most of the time. I would be a great skater one day. I had to be. 

“Is there something on your mind?” Misha asked. I swear I leapt higher than he was tall. My jump was accompanied by the most embarrassing little yelping sound ever. A whole truck full of adrenaline was dumped into my system. I felt jittery and like I needed to run all the way to the corner store. It was then that I noticed that Misha had stolen the dog leashes from me. 

“They’re my dogs!” I said, and took all three of them back. Misha didn't let go of my right hand, though. I didn't shake him off. 

“That’s all you have to say?” 

“I hate myself and my skating. Let’s get a beer and a carton of Menthols. Are you satisfied?” I joked. Misha didn't seem to think it was funny. It was clearly hilarious. A laugh, one might say. 

“Talk to me, I’m your friend.” 

“How do I know, though?” I asked. I was going to do it. “How do I know that you’re actually my friend? How do I know your name is even Misha?” He frowned for a moment, and looked off into the distance. He put his finger on his chin for a moment.

“I don't know…” 

“Exactly! Nobody knows anything-”

“Pretty deep, for a nine year old,” Misha commented. I punched his shoulder. I really hated him sometimes.

“I’m nine and seven months,” I told him. He giggled softly. I really wanted to punch him in the face sometimes. I refrained, and stared straight ahead. Misha sighed.

“You really do get so cute when you’re mad,” He said wistfully. 

“I hope you die!” He just giggled. 

When we got to the corner store, I showed him how to tie the dogs’ leashes to the post. He said goodbye to all of them, and even kissed Pooja on the snout. 

“That’s overkill,” I said, hands on my hips. Misha stood up, and opened the door for me. I stepped inside and he followed. 

“Damn, the air conditioner in here is strong!” He commented. Ayzere was sitting on the counter.

“It’s what we take pride in,” She said in a monotone voice. She might've been making a joke, or she might have just had a dull voice. Probably the latter. 

“Hi!” Misha said. He waved. I wondered if he was this friendly towards everyone he came into contact with. 

“Hello, Otabek and company,” Ayzere said. She hopped off the counter and wandered into the back of the store.

“Hello, Ayzere,” I responded. I don't know what it was, but I just became cooler when I was around her. I had no idea why, of course, but that seemed to be the way things were. I spotted Yosef out of the corner of my eye, and pointed him out to Misha. 

“What? What is it?” He asked. He couldn't see the cat, so I kept pointing at Yosef until Misha noticed him.

“Ooh! A kitty!” He exclaimed, and went over to pet Yosef. The cat hissed and leapt away. Misha looked sad that he had found an animal that didn't like him. 

“Don't take it personally,” I said, “That cat hates everyone and everything.” 

“Oh, so like you?” Misha said, smirking at me. 

“He’s one of the good ones,” I confirmed, and nodded my head. Misha nudged my shoulder.

“You’re not even fun to playfully insult,” 

“So why do you stick around me?” Misha paused. He looked like he was really thinking about it. He shrugged, and grabbed two kinder eggs off a shelf. 

“Nobody controls friendship.” He approached Mrs. Polzin at the counter, and set out the eggs. She checked their prices, and told them to Misha. He paid her, and handed me one of the eggs. I unwrapped it, and bit off the top. While I was chewing, I poured out the prize inside. It was a miniature plastic elephant. I stared at it for a moment before tossing it in the trash. Misha shoved his egg in his pocket and followed me outside. I was in the midst of shoving the entire rest of the chocolate egg into my mouth. Misha giggled softly at the sight, and got the dogs’ leashes off of the pole. They all looked very excited to see us, although Pooja was the most excited. 

We started walking back to my grandparents’ house. We started up a conversation about Harry Potter, but by the time we made it back, we were talking about a man named Viktor Nikiforov. He was, apparently, the best skater to ever grace the sport. Misha was raving about him when we went inside, and continued to talk about how awesome Viktor was while we dried the dogs off. It had started raining while we were on our way back. It had been the slanty kind of rain, the kind you can't even avoid with an umbrella. Misha plopped the towel he had used to dry the dogs down on my head and started drying me off. 

“Stop it!” I shouted, and pushed him away. Misha giggled, and pushed me back before skirting out of the way. It devolved into a small pushing fight that wound up with the both of us laughing our stupid asses off on the floor of the living room.

“Shut up and move,” Ravil said. Misha stood up and plopped himself in between Nuroski and Ravil. He put his arms around them and pulled them closer to him.

“How is it if I sit here?” He asked. Ravil simply rolled his eyes and slunk away, on account of being used to Misha ‘Overly Affectionate’ Antonov, but Nuroski shoved him away with a distasteful look in his eyes. 

“Ew, no. Stop touching me like that,” He said. I sat down on Ravil’s other side.

“You get used to it,” I mumbled. Nuroski smirked. 

“Oh, I get it. You’re a couple of fags.” Misha sat up on his knees and punched Nuroski in the jaw before a second could pass. Nuroski fell back, shocked and clutching his jaw. I barely believed that he had just done that. Then again, Nuroski made comments like that twice a week at least. If he wasn't used to how affectionate Misha was, there was no way Misha would be ready for how big of a dick Nuroski was. Maybe he was compensating for something… 

“Don't call us that!” Misha said. His voice was high as a drug addict. 

“Misha!” I said. My voice was also high. I was on my knees too now. Huh. 

“Stop your fighting, don't say ‘fag’, whatever, just watch the game,” Grandpa said. He tapped his cigar while he spoke. Ash fell onto his lap. Nuroski sat back up again and shoved Misha away from him with one hand while holding his jaw in the other. 

“Get off of me,” He said. His words were slurred and had a bit of a lisp, and there was blood on his bottom lip. Misha’s hands flew to his mouth and he gasped. He grabbed one of Nuroski’s arms and pulled him into a sitting position. Misha also fell into a cross-legged position. Ravil put one arm out and shoved me on my ass. I fell backwards and landed partially on Aliya. She shoved me back towards Ravil, at which point I settled in between them and watched the events between Misha and Nuroski. 

“Oh my God, I am so sorry. I really didn't mean to, I just-” Nuroski swatted at Misha, waving him away. 

“M’Fine.” 

“No, you’re not! There’s blood on your lips! Oh, I’m an idiot!” Misha fussed, “Get up, you need an ice pack or something!” I jumped to attention, then felt stupid. I ran into the kitchen anyway, and pulled a drawer open. There were ziploc bags inside, among other things that were less important at the moment. I grabbed a small ziploc bag and put three ice cubes inside. I brought it back to the living room and handed it to Misha.

“Here.” 

“Thanks,” He said, and handed it to Nuroski. He continued to glare at us, although he was a little less angry about it this time. Just our luck, Grandma walked into the room at that moment. She saw Nuroski with the ice pack on his cheek before everything else in the room. 

“Oh my!” She gasped, and ran over. She kneeled behind the couch and pulled the ice pack away from his cheek. He moaned softly. She touched the red and slightly swollen spot on his cheek with her fingertips.

“What happened?” 

“I punched him,” Misha said. I glared at him. So did Grandma. She didn't say anything, and the only noise in the room was the announcer’s voice on the TV. At least, for a few seconds.

“Why?” 

“H-He called us fags,” Misha mumbled. He was blushing. I don't think I’d ever seen him blush before. And maybe he was right, maybe it was cute to see people blush, but it sure wasn't cute to see him blush. I pressed my shoulder against his arm anyway. 

“And?” Grandma asked. 

“That was it,” He said. Grandma looked confused, as if she didn't understand what Misha was so upset about. I didn't really get it either, but if that word hurt him so much, then it shouldn't be said in his presence. I’d never call him a fag. 

“That doesn't excuse punching a boy! Come, Nuro, I’ll take a look at you,” She said, and extended a hand to him. He took her hand and climbed over the back of the couch. She probably would have threatened to lacerate me with a rolling pin if I had done that. She really hated it when you climbed over the back of the couch. Misha had a sad look on his face. It wasn't the one that he used to guilt you into things, though. He was actually sad. I touched his elbow. 

“It’s okay,” I said softly. He looked at me. 

“As long as I never have to talk to that guy again,” Misha said. There was something tugging at the corners of my mouth. 

“He’s a goon,” I said. Misha giggled.

“Stop talking and watch the damn game!” Grandpa said. We fell silent. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the eye of the leopard, it's the thrill of the fight...


	6. 2008.3

That year was a good year for skating. I did get better, although it took about the entire summer. Honestly, it was all thanks to Misha. He had been the one to introduce me to the idea of competing. I guess you could say I owe my career to him. That’s a scary thought. Anyway, he was the one to hand me the flyer for a local skating competition and tell me to enter. I told him that I didn't want to be part of the competition scene until I was actually good enough to compete. Misha slapped his forehead. 

“You’re nine. Your class is for eleven to twelve year olds! Of course you’re not at the same level as everybody else! Still, that doesn't mean that you’re anything less than incredible! It’d be a crime not to sign up!” He whined. 

“I don't want to,” I said, and threw the flyer on the floor of my room. Misha opened his mouth to talk.

“Don't tell me that I have to sign up again,” I said, and crossed my arms. I slouched down against the wall. 

“I won't. Just saying that if you want to go pro, you have to start somewhere,” Misha said. He had crossed his arms and started staring out the window. As if that would make him any cooler. 

“I will start. When I’m actually good at what I’m doing.” Misha groaned. 

“Viktor Nikiforov probably thought the same thing,” He pointed out. I rolled my eyes. 

“Yeah, but he’s prodigiously talented. He’s been on the ice since he was an embryo.” Misha looked back at me. 

“How do you know what an embryo is?” I shrugged.

“I know a lot of things.”

“Define syzygy.” Oh, I remembered this! It was when the Earth, Sun, and Moon were all aligned! Or something like that, I wasn't certain. It was something like an eclipse, but with more planets and celestial bodies. 

“A sweet-ass triple eclipse,” I answered. Misha slapped the bed. 

“Damn it! You know everything!” He exclaimed. I shrugged, embarrassed.

“No I don't. I just think dictionaries are interesting.” And so the flyer on the floor was forgotten. Still, every time I passed by it, I thought that maybe I should sign up. It was staring me down, and eventually won me over. I didn't tell Misha about it, though. He would never let me live it down, and then when he started being a doof, I would start blushing. I hated blushing, to tell you the truth. It made me feel like an idiot. Only, he was right about red faces being cute. Girls did look cute sometimes when they blushed. Anyway, after being stared down by a piece of paper like the weakling I am, I gathered up the courage to ask Ms. Utkin, my figure skating teacher, if she would be willing to help me with the competition. She said yes, which felt like a punch to the stomach. The good kind, though. Like, the way you feel after doing an ab workout. I really liked the way it made me feel. 

“Though, this is going to mean you’re going to have to stay after class, and come more days a week. Is that something you can do?” I nodded, 

“Thank you so much!” I gushed, and shook her hand. Internally, I was shouting at myself for how loud I was being. I didn't want to be loud and stupid, like some people. I can think of two in particular, and they go by the names of Ravil Altin and Nuroski…something. It had been years and I still hadn't bothered to learn his silly name. It’s not like I cared or wanted to know his surname, though. He was, after all, a dope. If I ever got famous, I would be sure to call him out on his bullshit on international television. It would be great. The entire world would know about how stupid Nuroski Something was. That would give me joy until I came across him next, when he would undoubtedly punch me in the face. Then the world would only know more about how big of a tool he was. 

Anyway, I wound up in the competition. It was scheduled for August the nineteenth and it had me nearly falling apart at the seams. Grandma wound up washing my socks in the sink every night after practice, because there were so many popped blisters and pieces of skin and bloodstains inside. 

“You need to stop pushing yourself so hard. Every day you come home exhausted and then there’s these disgusting socks…” She said, scrubbing at one of the socks I had been wearing. It was blue and had the Nike logo on the side. The toe and heel were green. I didn't particularly like those socks. 

“Oh, so you learned to knit perfectly in a day?” I spat. I was pissed. I was so tired and hungry and still wasn't getting very far in what I was doing. I still wasn't graceful and I was still too powerful. Although I suppose that was a good thing. Ms. Utkin had pulled me aside and told me that I really needed to stop going into jumps so enthusiastically. I had potential to start doing more advanced jumps earlier on, she said, but I would also likely hurt myself because my body was still developing and growing. Ha. As if. I was barely growing at all. My younger sister was almost taller than me. I was still just under one hundred and fifty centimeters, which was embarrassing. Hey, maybe someone would think that i was prodigiously talented because they thought I was younger than I am. 

“Where did that aggression come from?” She asked. I shrugged. I didn't care that she wasn't looking at me. Maybe that was why I was getting away with being all splayed out on the dinner table. 

Before it was lunch time, it was August nineteenth and I had never felt as afraid as I did while sitting there and waiting for my name to be called. Everybody else was so much more flawless than I could ever hope to be.  _ You’re also the youngest person here, _ Misha’s voice said in my head,  _ The guy who’s performing now is thirteen. The others are all older than you, and it’s going to be fine. _ I was supposed to do all doubles and a triple toe loop, which Ms. Utkin wasn't sure I would be able to do, given I had never actually landed one. But other than that, I was probably good to go on everything except for the whole issue of me being a graceless flop. Oh well. Maybe I would grow up to be a more graceful man. I doubted it, though. 

Graceful people never had muscle lines on their bodies from where their muscles stuck out. Or did they? I wasn't sure. Misha was graceful, and he only had lines on his legs when he was using his calves. Leyla was graceful, and she had lines on her forearms, but nowhere else. I had lines on my calves and my forearms when I wasn't putting them to use. Was I doing something wrong? I didn't think so, because things involving those muscles usually went well. I looked down at my ridiculous costume- it was all flowy and purple. It showed off my collarbone and draped over my shoulders. The sleeves were short, which I guess was good. It annoyed me, though. What if they slid up while I was on the ice? That would be embarrassing. There was also a skirt-type thing around my waist. I wanted to rip it off. It would add drag when I was moving fast, and it brushed against my thighs in a way that I was never certain if it was actually there. I hated it. 

My name was called while I was sitting on the bench next to Ms. Utkin. I nearly leapt out of my skin. Wasn't I scheduled to go near the end of the competition? Ugh, I hate how time flies when you’re panicking, which I really was. 

“You’ve got this,” Ms. Utkin said as I stepped onto the ice. I hoped I did. And if I didn't, I would blame it on Misha for leaving that dumb flyer in my room. The world fell silent as I skated to the middle of the ice. It was less intimidating than I thought. Maybe it was because I could see that the audience really wasn't all that big. Although, if there had been a spotlight on me, I probably would have combusted out of fear. Oddly enough, I couldn't feel every pair of eyes on me. The announcers- God, I hated their voices- called out my name and what song I would be performing to. That word, performing, always got me when they used it to describe figure skating. It blurred the line between a sport and a performing art. Think about it. They don't say that two teams will be performing against each other when they announce any other sport, they say competing. Why didn't they say that I was going to be competing with my song instead of performing with it? That’s what was actually happening.  

The first notes were so much louder when they were played to fill a stadium. I took a deep and moved into the music. It’s funny. I don't really remember performing very much. I remember seeing my own arms flying out in front of my face, and parts of the rest of my body, but not actually making anything happen. Chalk it all up to muscle memory. I was deaf by the end of it, due to the blasting of the song and something I’d never expected to hear. There were people cheering for me. I had never minded so much as when I froze into the final position. My legs were together and my right toe pick was suck into the ice. My shoulders and hips were perpendicular to each other, and my left arm was wrapped around my waist. My right arm was a cantilever, and all of my fingers were pointing down. People clapped. It made my heart beat so much faster. 

I wished I had told Misha about this. I could really use a hug from him right about now. 

I left the ice, and found that I had come in second place. It wasn't bad, but it still wasn't winning. There was, surprisingly, prize money in the competition, although it wasn't much. That was a given, though. Anyway, all I wanted to do was get out of the damn rink. As soon as I was allowed to leave, I changed out of that damn costume and dragged my family and Ms. Utkin out into the parking lot. 

“I want to go home,” I whined. I hated whining, and honestly had no idea why my voice decided to betray me so often. Mama let me sit in the front seat of the car. I hadn't expected that, since Grandpa was also in the car. He did nothing but compliment me all the way back to his house. I didn't really say anything, because I was too preoccupied with staring at the silver medal around my neck. It was made of cheap plastic and could probably be snapped easier than a pencil, but it spoke worlds to me. It was saying, “Hey kiddo, this is how good at figure skating you really are.” I didn't want to believe it- what if I got cocky?- but while we were driving home from the rink, I actually believed that I was a half-decent skater. I smiled at my jeans and held the medal to my stomach. 

I hung that medal on the handle of my bedroom door at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. I don't really remember why, but it hasn’t left that doorknob in years. It’s made a scratch in the paint where it swings. Grandma has been talking about fixing it since it first appeared but has never actually done anything about it. Maybe she was sympathetic because it was my first medal or something. Maybe she was just too lazy. I’ll never know. 

Anyway, I got my hug from Misha when he came over to my grandparent's house after ballet one day. My suitcase was laying half packed on the floor. The other half of my clothes were strewn about or in the closet. I dove onto my bed and spread my limbs out across the telescope pattern.

“I’m tired,” I mumbled. Misha wasn't joining me. He was still in the doorway. 

“Misha?” He looked up at me. He pointed at my medal.

“Where’d this come from?” He asked. I had forgotten about that. I sat up. 

“W-Well, I entered that thing with the flyer you left…and I happened to come in second place.” Misha’s eyes brightened. A smile split his cheeks and he pulled me off of the bed. He hugged me really tightly. I could practically feel his smile. And something about it made me embarrassed. He pushed me away after squeezing me so tightly I feared for my life.

“I told you you were amazing!” He shouted, and then his features fell, “Why didn't you tell me?” I shrugged.

“You’d make a big deal out of it, like you make a big deal out of everything.” Misha stepped back. He put a hand to his chest and made a melodramatic swooning motion. 

“Me? Make a big deal out of something? Never!” I smiled, which made him smile. I bit the inside of my bottom lip. 

“I don't know what put the idea in my head,” I said sarcastically. Misha giggled softly. 

“But still! Second place?! How old was everybody else?” I looked down. My face was red. Really red. 

“I don't know. The oldest guy came in first, I think he was thirteen,” I said. Misha gasped excitedly. 

“Dude, you are so awesome. C’mon, we’re going out for ice cream.” He grabbed my hand and started pulling me. I stubbed my toe on a nail. 

“But I haven't done anything today,” I said. Misha raised one eyebrow and pulled me down the stairs. I was thinking the whole time that he was going to trip and then I was going to trip and we would fall down the stairs. He would crack the back of his head open and I would pet his head while Grandma drove us to the hospital. I would keep petting his head until I wasn't allowed to pet it anymore. His hair looked like it would be really soft. So maybe my fantasy of Misha cracking his head open was really an expression of my wish to pet his hair. Oh well. Everybody thinks of weird things like that sometimes, right? 

“Mr. Altin?” Misha asked as we came to the first floor. He looked up from his spot on the couch. 

“Yes?” 

“Can we borrow some money? Otabek wanted to go and get ice cream because of the competition-”

“No, I don't!” I corrected him, “You’re using my second place medal as an excuse to get ice cream.” Misha slapped his forehead. 

“You deserve it,” He said. Grandpa groaned slightly while standing. I hoped that I would never groan while standing up. 

“I don't see why not,” He said, and reached into his back pocket. He pulled out his wallet and handed Misha a small wad of money. Why did everybody he came across just like him so much?! Why did he get away with everything? If I had attempted to do half of the things he had gotten away with doing, I would be in a hall for juvenile delinquents! Misha was kind of a badass in that respect. He had stolen so much stuff, and not just from the book store. I wished I was a badass. 

Misha took the money, and we walked into the entry area. We slid our shoes on and then left the house. I was annoyed that Misha was actually going to buy me ice cream, but then again, I was annoyed by a lot of things. By the time we had made it to the corner store, I didn't care as much anymore. I had actually laughed on the way here, if you can believe it. Misha thought that my laugh was cute. I reminded him that he thought everything was cute. I had really wanted to tell him that I was only laughing in a cringey way, but I didn't. 

“Stop being so bass-ic with your humor,” I said. Misha’s eyes went wide while he tried to come up with another pun. 

“Your joke fell  _ flat _ on it’s ass. Get it? Flat?” I would have tackled him tight then and there if it weren't for the fact that we were in public. Instead, I turned to face him and said in a monotone,

“Well, now you’re in treble.” And continued on my way. Misha followed behind me.

“I know, I know, I’m not clef-er enough to make them sound natural,” He said. He was smiling. I stopped walking. That had to be one of the worst puns I’d ever heard. 

“I hope you die,” I said, and continued walking. 

“I’m sorry, Otabek! Forgive me for my sins!” He shouted. He had one hand on his heart, and the other was palm-up on his forehead. He did it all while doing an arabesque devant. I rolled my eyes at him. 

“You living flop,” I said. Misha smiled. I liked his smile. I mean, I’d seen it before, but I had never really paid close attention to the lines on his face and his dimples or the way his eyes shone. It was nice. 

We decided to race the rest of the way to the corner store not long after passing the playground. Misha won, but he would tell you that it was a tie. We burst into the small store, all sweaty and giggly. Well, Misha was giggly. I was huffing softly and smiling at the tiles on the floor. As soon as we entered the store, Ayzere’s head popped up. Her hair was in a bun today. I didn't like it. 

“Hi,” She said softly, and then popped her head back down. Her normal voice was a monotone. Misha ran to the other side of the store, where the ice cream cooler was. He pulled out an ice cream sandwich, and I grabbed a push pop. He paid for them. I was mad about that. He had paid for both my kinder egg and my push pop now, as well as several books. I really needed to pay him back. 

“What do I owe you?” I asked, once we were outside the store. 

“Nothing. It’s a friendly gesture. And this- this is your winnings! Enjoy it,” He said, and unwrapped his ice cream. He crumpled the wrapper and stuck it in his pocket. Well, shit. Now the inside of his pocket was going to be sticky. He bit a good quarter of the ice cream sandwich off in the first bite. We had made it to the playground and sat on the bench. He had finished half of his, while I was still just carrying mine. He pointed it out, which made me get all embarrassed over nothing again. I started eating it, and fast. I choked on the ice cream at one point and spent a few minutes coughing. Misha slapped my back a few times. I slapped his arm, and he stopped. I tried swallowing, which worked, but I was still breathless. I tried breathing deeply for a few minutes, which went pretty well. I did wind up breathing normally, after all. 

“You good?” Misha asked. I nodded. He nodded and crammed most of the rest of his ice cream into his mouth. I shoved him to the side. He shoved back. 

“I still hate you for making those puns, though,” I said. 

“You can't act like you didn't make any puns yourself.” I smiled. I don't know why I was doing that so much all of a sudden. Maybe I was being mind controlled by Misha. No, he’s too stupid. But hey, at least he’s less of a dingbat than the rest of the world. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we're leaving behind the year that invented Rick Rolling.


	7. 2009

2009

 

Mama was happier this year than the last, mostly because ‘we were rich now’. Only we weren't. She had just gotten a better job. Apparently, it was a lot better, and paid a lot higher than her previous job. She worked in customer services, or maybe she was a sales supervisor, or an accountant. I didn't really know. But whatever. She had managed to get back on her feet since Papa left. He had had real deep pockets. Ravil said it was because he did cocaine, and when you were addicted to cocaine, you had to be a fat cat. That didn't make any sense to me. I had thought that most addicts went poor and homeless and all due to spending all of their money on drugs. And wasn't cocaine expensive? Maybe that’s why we were poor. Maybe it was because Papa actually did have money, and he just kept spending it on alcohol and drugs. I wasn't allowed to know because I was so young, but I didn't see how it could be any other way.

Mama was also a lot less on edge because Serik came home, and he brought his girlfriend with him. Myrto, her name was. He had come home a few weeks before finals with the news that he had dropped out of college. Mama was less happy about that, but she was happy about having all of her children back at home and with the prospect of Serik and his girl getting married. She was very pretty. She had an oily face, which looked wet sometimes, and huge green eyes. Her hair was dark brown and not curly enough to be kinky. The hair on her arms was dark and thick, like Aliya’s. I was embarrassed to compare my arms to theirs. My head hair was black, but my body hair was blond. Upon first meeting her, Ravil had asked her why she didn't shave her arms and legs.

“I don't have the time,” She mused. She was always staring off into the distance at something or other. Serik joked that Myrto was just like me. She didn't seem to care, or even notice really, but I took it as a personal offence. She was a smart airhead, and I was a smart athlete. It wasn't hard to misinterpret somebody somebody, and my family excelled at it. I really hated them sometimes. I told all of this to Misha, obviously. It made no sense to me that my best friend wasn't my sibling, or at least my roommate. Misha said that he wanted to meet Serik, since he had already met Ravil and thought he was a dick. I agreed with him there, although not to the same extent. Misha seemed to really hate Ravil. I would hate him that much too if I thought he didn't care about me.

I knew he cared because he always got so annoyed when people picked on me for being girly. I was girly because I danced and skated. They weren't ‘traditionally masculine’. Well, as far as I was concerned, it was traditionally masculine to be strong, so if that’s what I was being judged on, I was plenty masculine. Ravil had even defended me on some occasions, although all of those times involved him awkwardly stammering until he could say that I was still a cool guy. It made me really happy to hear that he thought I was cool. Maybe more than it should have.

I was also really excited for Misha to meet Serik. Serik had a lot of stories about his college experience, although my favorite was the first one that he had told. In Greece, where he had been for college, he had swindled a drunk man out of his 1948 Harley Davidson S-125. Myrto had whispered in my ear once that the bike had actually belonged to her father, who came from a long line of rich people all the way back to God knows when. I believed her more than I believed Serik, although the margin was small.

After term ended, Mama asked Aliya, Ravil, and I if we wanted to go to Grandma and Grandpa’s house this summer. Serik had said that he wanted to go, and Myrto had said that she would go with him. Aliya decided that because Myrto was going that she would go, and I decided to go because Aliya was going. That’s why I actually wound up spending a lot of my summer at Misha’s house. I figured that there wouldn't be enough room for us all if there were three spare beds and four people. Instead, the two of them ended up sharing my bed and I was moved into Ravil’s old bed. I didn't like his bed. The mattress was too hard.

That was another reason why I spent a lot of the summer at Misha’s house. It was quiet there. He was an only child, so there was no rambunctious little sister out to break every gender stereotype running around. There was no big brother who insisted that he and his girlfriend always be sitting on each other’s laps and having disgustingly sweet domestic arguments about things that didn't even concern them. There were no grandparents who didn't necessarily get along anymore but still loved each other. There weren't three dogs that had to be in everyone’s business all the time. There was just him and his parents. I mean, the walls did make the house look like a Misha shrine, but I could live with seeing his face everywhere I turned.

“You know, you’re lucky you have such a quiet house,” I said once over dinner. We were having pizza.

“I get lonely sometimes,” Misha said, “Mom and Dad are out at work all day, and it’s so boring to be here all by myself.” His dad owned a salon that was about the biggest salon I’d ever seen. He couldn't decide what he wanted to do- hair styling, tattooing, or piercing- so he didn't choose. He bought a foreclosed house and set up the mega salon inside. I thought that it was pretty cool. His dad was covered in tattoos and piercings, and he was about the sweetest guy you would ever meet. He could be a bit stupid at times, but he seemed to be happy. I wished that I was like him. Dumb, happy, and good at what he loved. I had whispered that to Misha one night when we were watching a pirated movie on his mother’s laptop, which couldn't have been less interesting if it tried.

“Not having that conversation again. Besides, you’re pretty dumb yourself if you think that ice skating is the only thing you love doing,” He mumbled. His head was leaned on my shoulder. He was right, although it annoyed me that ice skating was the first thing that popped into his mind. He may have interpreted what I meant correctly, but that didn't mean I wanted him to. I’d much rather it if he had made a comment on my literacy, or my knowledge of math, or just…something that wasn't skating. I didn't want to have the conversation where he tried to make me feel better either. They were riddled with lies, at least on Misha’s part. I never seemed to win those conversations, even though I was always right. I was, ask anybody except Misha.

“Obviously. ‘M still right, though,” I mumbled back. I was tired. My body had very little capacity to move at the moment. Ms. Utkin had been pushing me really hard lately, so that I could be good enough to enter into the Junior brackets as soon as I was old enough. It killed me that I had to wait a year longer than a lot of the other people I knew. They were all a year older than me and had birthdays in the springtime. If I had been born even a year earlier, the time before I could compete on a global scale would be cut in half. If I had been born in the spring of 1998, even. I was stuck with a birthday on the last day of October. I wished that I was eleven right then really badly. I would still have to wait until 31 October, though. I really hated waiting.

Ms. Utkin seemed to think I was ready, though. She had helped me win a local competition for amateurs during the winter. She told me after that that if I wanted her to be my coach when I became a professional skater, I would have to pay her. I promised that I would, although that would be a few years down the road when I would decide whether or not to enter the Junior competition bracket, which, of course I would. What I needed right now was lots of practice time and a way to get people to notice me. Maybe I could buy an advertisement. I needed money for that though, and I didn't have any.

“You’re awesome,” Misha whispered back. The fingers on his left hand brushed over my stomach. His hand stopped and rested over my belly button. My skin felt like it was on fire. That was new. I didn't entirely mind it. He pressed down. The fire was gone. I groaned softly. My abs hurt a lot, due to doing a fuck ton of sit ups during training only about six hours ago. I had also had to lay down on the ground and scissor my legs in the air at the breakneck pace of a snail. Ms. Utkin had to keep reminding me to breathe while I did those exercises. She also drilled me pretty hard about my flexibility. It wasn't what it should be, that was for sure. I still couldn't do a split. It was discouraging to see everyone around me doing splits all the goddamn time while I was still stuck with stretching to reach my toes. I could do it just fine, but there were some people who could reach past their feet and clasp their own hands. Misha was one of those people, although it didn't discourage me when he did splits. It actually made me proud, even though I had seen it a million times before. Maybe he could give me advice on how to become more flexible.

“Don't fuckin’ touch my stomach,” I mumbled. I had long since closed my eyes. I never wanted to move again, I was so comfortable. Misha moved his hand away from my stomach. He also moved his head off of my shoulder. My whole right side became cold.

“Are you sleepy?” He asked in a singsong voice. I hummed a soft ‘mm-hmm’. It was taking all of my energy to not fall asleep right then and there. He closed the laptop and stopped the inane aria that was playing. Thank fuck. Misha pushed me off to the side. See, we were on the couch in the living room, and it was somehow the most comfortable piece of furniture in the goddamn universe. I opened my eyes. The room was nice and dark. You could hear the cicadas buzzing just outside the open window. I thought they sounded nice, although I didn't like the way their molts looked. Aliya thought the exact opposite.

“Do you want me to call your Grandma?” He asked quietly. I pushed myself into a sitting position.

“What time is it?” He opened the computer and looked at the clock. It read 10:49 post-meridian. She would not like being called this late. According to Grandma, everything after sunset was too late to do anything.

“I’ll stay here, thanks,” I said.

“Where do you want to sleep?” He asked.

“Couch is fine,” I mumbled. We spent the next few minutes pulling blankets and pillows from all around the house. I burrowed into the blankets, and we said our good nights. Misha hesitated for a moment before smiling at me and turning off the lights. That night, I dreamed that I had money. In my dream, I rode a motorcycle and was a perfect skater. I was friends with Viktor Nikiforov and Misha was wearing hair gel. I had a whole goddamn collection of medals to hang on my doorknob. I woke up crying, for whatever reason. I must’ve spent at least five minutes sobbing into the blankets like a little baby. I hated myself so much, it was like a knife twisting in my chest. I had no idea why any of this was happening. I just felt so…so fat and ugly and narcissistic. I guess you could call me 370.

When was it that emotions had stopped making sense? I dried my eyes on what looked like a baby’s blanket. I kept making soft choking noises into the back of my hand, though. I just…hurt. I didn't know why. Maybe I had started puberty. I had been told it made no sense, although that was about it. I should probably read up on the topic.

Misha’s mom wandered into the room while I was making awkward noises into the back of my hand. She sat down next to me and started rubbing my back. I looked up at her. I was confused. Then again, Misha’s family was poisonously kind. His mom and dad would sacrifice their lives for someone they’d never met. She whispered that it would be okay to me until I stopped crying. Even while I was laying on the couch and feeling all post-cry gross, she didn't ask me what was wrong. It made me real happy that she didn't. I didn't want to talk or figure out what the hell was up with me. I really did want to swap families with Misha right then.

The last thing I wanted was for Misha to walk into the room, but he did anyway. I thought that we had best friend telepathy or something. He was all gooey eyed and full of yawns. He was wearing blue pyjamas. He plopped down on the couch next to my head.

“Morning,” He grumbled. It made me start crying again. I didn't know why. I was upset by nothing, and only idiots were upset by things as boring as nothing. His eyes widened.

“What’s wrong?” He sounded worried, too.

“D-Don't wanna talk,” I mumbled. Misha nodded. He stroked my hair. It made me feel weak. I shook my head away, and pulled a blanket over my face. It cast a green glow over everything, and made it harder to breathe. I kept it there anyway. I didn't want to be around people at the moment. I just wanted to be at home.

“I want to go home,” I said shakily. Someone put their hand on my shoulder and gave me an affirming pat. Why were they so kind? I didn't do anything that would make them want to be nice to me and yet they were. It just made me cry harder. Eventually, I did stop crying, and Misha’s mom asked me if I wanted to eat breakfast. I said no, which was okay with her. She kissed me on the head as if I were her son. It made me get all sad. More tears fell down my face, which I hated. At home, crying meant that you would get punched sooner rather than later, or that the adult of the house would make you spill out every little detail leading up to your unhappiness. But that was just the thing, I didn't know what was making me cry or how to make it stop. I would’ve just spent the summer at Misha’s place if I could. He had so much cool stuff, like a toy telescope and a thesaurus and posters of famous dancers.

His family had a much bigger TV than mine did, and they had laptops. Mama had a desktop computer and so did Grandma, and that was it. Me and my siblings weren't allowed to use the computer in case we broke it, but I knew for a fact that Ravil played this game called Poptropica on it all the time. Aliya liked to watch over his shoulder. She was so damn captivated by it. I had no idea why; the game seemed super boring.

Eventually, around two hours after I had woken, up, Misha’s mom drove me home. I thanked her for driving me and opened the door. I suddenly noticed that every muscle in my body was sore.

“I’m home,” I shouted, and kicked my shoes off. Pooja came running to meet me. She probably didn't know one person who walked in the door from the next, but each and every one of them excited her. I pet her head, and trudged further into the house. Oddly enough, all I wanted to do right now was sleep. I was confronted by Grandma almost as soon as I was in the kitchen. I thirsty after crying.

“Where have you been?” She asked, arms crossed.

“Misha’s house,” I answered. She raised one eyebrow. I moved past her to grab a glass from the cupboard. None of the cups at home or at my grandparents’ house matched. All of the cups at Misha’s house matched. They were blue and plastic. We had ones that were made of glass and plastic and metal. They were tall and short and skinny and fat. I pulled one made of purple glass out of the shelf. I had to stand on my toes to reach it. I nearly knocked it off the shelf.

“You were supposed to come back home at eight yesterday. Why are you here now?” She asked. I filled the cup with water and took a sip. I looked up into her eyes.

“If you must know, we started watching a movie, and it got late. So, instead of walking the four miles alone at night, I stayed there for the night,” I said.

“And you didn't think to call us and say that you would be staying the night? Or even ask permission, even you wouldn't have been allowed to anyway?” I shook my head. She sighed dismissively, “Just get ready for skating,” and strutted off to do something else. God, I hated it when she strutted. And right then, I mostly just wanted to be back in that sleepy state where my eyelids were warm and heavy and I could barely form coherent words. I liked that feeling. It was euphoric. Maybe there could be another moment like that soon.

But it was daytime now, and before there could be any moments that felt like they were under a microscope, the day would have to finish. And I would have to spend hours at practice. I ran upstairs to change into leggings and knee high socks. I pulled the socks on and folded them down over themselves. I was already wearing blister blockers on my ankles and some of my toes, but it never hurt to put more between my skin and the skates.

I curled up on my messed up bedsheets- And not Ravil’s smelly old bed, I meant my telescope blankets. They smelled like Serik and Myrto. I didn't like that they were sleeping in my bed. It was mine, not theirs, and nobody could do anything about that. Or maybe I could just move in with Misha. It would probably be better for everybody. Grandma wouldn't be disappointed with me all the time, Ravil wouldn't have to be such a dick all the time, and Aliya would be able to have competition with him without being compared to me. I would rather live with Misha anyway. It would be better to be in a house where I knew that everybody liked me and I would never have to prove that I was worthy of attention or say that putting on a glittery costume and a little bit of stage makeup for a profession didn't make me gay. That was something else that annoyed me. I had never even liked someone, and people like Nuroski were just assuming that I wanted to kiss boys! Why did something like that even matter?! It’s not like having a boyfriend instead of a girlfriend would make me a bad person.

I grabbed my skates from the closet and ran downstairs. I sat on the couch next to Myrto until Grandma told me that it was time to go. I asked her how she met Serik. She blushed lightly.

“Oh, it’s super boring, you wouldn't want to hear about it.” Well, now I sure as fuck wanted to hear about it.

“I care even more now,” I said. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Well, it was at a party my sister was having. I swear there must have been a hundred people attending. I don't even think she knew all of them,” Myrto said. She stopped to laugh. “Anyway, then Serik showed up. He was already drunk but said that he was sober. One thing lead to another and we wound up talking to each other on the staircase. I didn't think it was a good idea to kiss a drunk boy, but I did it anyway.” She gestured at the blank TV screen in front of us.

“Pretty boring, I know.”

“That’s one of the most incredible stories I’ve ever heard,” I told her. She blushed again.

“You can't have heard many good stories, then,” She said. I told her that I didn't know many stories, or at least I would have if Grandma hadn't shouted for me to get ready for skating. I really had spent a lot of time at Misha’s house.

She dropped me off at practice and everything was smooth sailing until I was allowed to leave. While I was taking my skates off, I didn't feel so good. My stomach hurt. And I don't mean my abs hurt, which, of course they did. They always ached a little after practice. I mean the actual organ inside of my body didn't feel so good. I ignored it and stood up once my skates were shoved into their bag. As always, they didn't fit in the right way and stuck out. I slung the bag over my shoulder and put my street shoes on.

A boy a little older than me came up to me in the lobby of the ice rink. Or maybe I just thought that because he was taller than me. Then again, nearly everyone was taller than me. He stood in front of me while I was walking.

“Hey, are you that kid who skates?” He asked. He had a glint in his eye that I didn't like.

“No, I’m here to play basketball,” I said and walked around him.

“Ha ha, I’m dying of laughter. No, aren't you that kid who figure skates?” He asked it with a rotten smile on his face. I nodded and kept walking. He kept trying to come in front of me. I didn't like him one bit.

“I am he,” I said as I walked out the door. The guy followed me out. I turned to face him, “Don't you have somewhere else to be?” He shook his head.

“Just wondering where it is you keep your balls, pretty boy.” And there it was. Why did people always have to make these jokes? Did they not understand that you basically had to be made of muscle to be a figure skater? You had to practically sell your body to the sport to get anywhere! It wasn't as if being graceful was an attribute reserved for women. I was so fucking sick of people like him.  

“G-Go fuck yourself,” I said, and walked past him into the parking lot. My stomach felt even worse now. He was making my heart clench all weirdly and putting tears behind my eyes. The boy chuckled. He grabbed my arm. His nails dug into my skin. It really hurt. He spun me around to face him. Fuck. I glared into his eyes. You always had to stare idiots down when you told them why they were idiots. His eyes were cold and black. Guys like him both enraged and terrified the shit out of me.

“Oh, so the fag knows how to curse. Your daddy teach you how?” He taunted. I ripped my arm out of his hand and elbowed him in the stomach. Oddly enough, it made my stomach feel even worse. He groaned and his eyes practically popped out of his head. While he was doubled over, I spoke up. It was the only chance I was going to get.

“Listen up, you fucking dick. I keep my balls between my legs, same as you, and I’m not gay. It’s really difficult and takes a lot of effort and training to be a skater, so don't go telling me I’m-” He stood back to his full height and glared at me.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?!” He shouted, “What gives you the right tho hit me?” I bristled.

“Same thing that makes you think you can come up to me and say whatever offensive thing pops into your head!” I yelled. I looked at the road. I really hoped that the guy would hit me, and then while he was beating me up, Grandma would arrive. She got real pissed off whenever Ravil got into a fight with a guy over something stupid, and would go to the ends of the Earth to protect him. Then again, I wanted to fight the guy myself. Misha had punched Nuroski in the jaw over being called a fag like it was nothing. So why did I feel so afraid every time I spoke? Why was it so hard for me to be brave?

The boy took a step closer to me. I backed up, and he kept coming closer. I planted my feet after taking two steps back. I gritted my teeth and held eye contact with him. My heart was beating real fast. The only thing I could hear other than that was the faint noise of a revving motorcycle.

“Fuck. Off,” I said, and pushed my way past him. He taunted me while I stomped across the parking lot to stand on the sidewalk. I felt like the most cowardly badass of all time. The badass part was mostly due to the motorcycle noises. When they stopped, I went back to just being a plain old coward. The boy was on my shoulder again, and he was poking me right below my ribs. It sent cold shivers up my spine.

“You’re still just a faggy pretty boy,” He whispered in my ear. His breath was warm and smelled like tangerines. And I had liked the way tangerines smelled. I kept looking the other way. I was trying to find the motorcycle. I spotted it on the other side of the parking lot. My heart soared to Serik walking away from it. He spotted me and waved. He had a cigarette in his mouth. I waved back, and stepped away from the goon behind me. I bolted towards my brother, and wrapped him in a hug. He made a small noise of surprise, and then chuckled softly. He hugged me back.

“What’s with this sudden affection?” He asked happily. I shook my head and hugged him tighter. The other guy was still there, I could tell, and he still scared the fucking shit out of me. I really didn't like being called a fag, and I was too much of a coward to fight back.

“People are jerks,” I said softly, “Especially him.” I pointed at the boy. Serik’s eyes darkened.

“What happened?”

“H-He called me a fag, among other things,” I mumbled. Serik huffed and marched over to the boy. I nearly died of embarrassment. “N-No!” I told him, but he kept walking. He arrived in front of the boy. He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and threw it on the ground between them.

“Hey!” My brother shouted. The boy leapt out of his skin and looked up at him.

“Y-Yes?” He asked.

“What did you call that kid?” Serik asked, pointing at me.

“A faggy pretty boy,” The boy spat. Serik kneeled down, cutting his height in half.

“If there is anything my little brother is not, it is deserving of the title 'faggy pretty boy'. Tell me, why did you call him that?” The other boy mumbled quietly and ran back into the rink. Serik sighed and shuffled closer to me.

“Are you okay?” He asked. I nodded, although I didn't even believe myself. I inched my arm across my waist. Serik frowned and stood to his full height. He crunched his cigarette under his foot. It still glowed after he took his foot away.

“Come on, then,” He offered me his hand. I took it, and glanced back at the rink. I was still really scared. I never felt safe after a guy talked to me like that. It didn't happen often enough for me to never feel safe, although I did find myself curled up in a ball in the bottom of the shower at least once a month.

“Does stuff like that happen a lot?” He asked. I nodded, staring at my feet. Then again, it depended on how you defined ‘a lot’. It was a lot in my book, although I couldn't be sure about Serik. Still, I didn't understand why he was being so nice to me. Did he want something? Was he trying to get me to do something stupid? Or was he just a nice guy? I didn't know too many of those. Even though some small form of justice had been achieved, I felt humiliated. My face was probably bright red.

“Only when there are idiots in the area,” I told him. Serik sighed.

“Not one of those boys is ever going to leave the country. They may not even go to college. You're going to be rich and internationally famous. You know why?” He asked. I shook my head. It boggled me that he thought so highly of me. He didn't even know me and he was already putting so much confidence in my abilities. There hardly were abilities to be confident in!

“Why?”

“Look up at me.” I did. It calmed me down a little bit to follow his instruction. He looked different than me. His hair was long and curly and brown. He had big eyes that his hair got in the way of, and broad shoulders. He was a giant to me. I wish I looked like Serik. Maybe then people would stop calling me a fag, or a pretty boy. At first, pretty boy had stung because I didn't think I was pretty enough, but once I realized that it was just another way of tearing me down, it stung the same way it did when I messed up really simple jumps. I bet Serik never got called those sorts of names.

“Because you, young Beka, are going to win the goddamn Olympics or whatever it is you're training for.” He ruffled my hair. Even though it was meant to be supportive, I felt like he was just calling me weak. And that goddamn nickname I really hated being called Beka. When I was a little kid, and I mean real little- maybe four years old- Ravil had put me in one of Aliya’s shirts and convinced all of his friends that I was a girl and that my name was Beka. I fucking hated being thought of as small and delicate and feminine. And so what if I was in love with a flamboyant sport? It didn't make me any less masculine.

I pushed Serik’s hand away. He drove me home on his motorcycle, and said that Grandma couldn't take me because she was out grocery shopping. I didn't get to wear a helmet. That was nice. I hated wearing helmets. I prefered to feel the wind in my hair. While I was getting off the bike, I realized that I really wanted to go back to Misha’s house. He was the one guy who never made me feel like I was weak.

When we arrived home, Ainia threw up on my shoes. That was exactly how I felt inside. Serik cleaned it up for me, which made me feel even more like vomit, and then went to talk to Grandpa. They sat on the couch. I listened to their conversation from the doorway. Serik was talking about leaving Almaty to buy a house with Myrto. Maybe they would go west and have a little cottage and farm in the mountains. They could do that not far from home, I thought. Or maybe they were going to go and live out near the Caspian Sea. I’d like to go with them if that were the case. Actually, no I wouldn't. I’d go mad. I wouldn't be able to do everything that I could do in the city. I doubted that in a small seaside village there would be an skating rink.

“Beka? Is that you?” Grandpa asked. He put his glasses on. He smiled upon seeing me. He was going to go blind, one of these days. He patted a spot on one of his thighs. I shook my head. I was far too old to sit on my Grandpa’s lap. I came into the room anyway, though, and sat on the couch. They continued talking about love and life and how the two could never be separated, as well as other things of the like.

Or at least, that is how I saw it. I only became interested in what they were talking about when Grandpa started talking about his time in Afghanistan. It had been short lived and boring. He was never on the front lines, being a doctor and all. The things he talked about weren't all that interesting, although he had seen some pretty intense wounds. I was most fascinated by the story of how he had been shot in the arm while on the border of Ukraine and Russia. That explained why he could never close a fist with his left hand.

I got bored eventually and wandered back upstairs to the bedroom. The sheets on my bed were all messed up. And I mean my bed, the one with the telescope blankets, not Ravil’s smelly old top bunk that I was borrowing for the time being. I laid on them, face down. They smelled like Serik and Myrto. It really upset me, plus I still felt shaken up by that boy in the parking lot.

I really wanted to go back there and punch him in the face, like how Misha had punched Nuroski last summer. He gave me courage in the way that he was able to just be himself without anybody questioning him. I realized that I really fucking missed him. I wanted to go boneless with my best friend and talk to him. I wanted to be back in his house, where it smelled like spices and listerine. Those two things shouldn't have been such a good combination, but they just were. Maybe I was having the best friend equivelent of postpartum depression.

I wanted to go back to his house so much I cried. I would have pulled my knees up to my face and cried into them if I had any energy left in my body. I was starving and covered in sweat. I felt so alone. Maybe I should have just stayed at home. Mama always kissed me on the head and told me she loved me before I went to sleep. I hated being kissed, and I had a hard time believing that I was loved sometimes, but the fact that she went out of her way to remind me that she loved me spoke more than any words could.

Serik found me while I was crying on the bed he had slept in last night. He sat on the foot of the bed and touched the largest toe on my left foot.

“Who made you so sad?” He asked. But it wasn't that simple. I wasn't crying over Misha, that would be stupid. And I wasn't crying over Ravil and Nuroski or Parking Lot Boy. Again, that would be stupid. They were stupid. Parking Lot Boy wasn't in my room right now, and he couldn't do anything else to hurt me. I wasn't crying because of Ms. Utkin. She was making my life better. I had to keep believing that my life would get better once I was able to become a professional skater. Was that even the answer? Was that even the thing I wanted to do with my life? It wasn't like I could turn back now, though. I had competitions scheduled and a pair of skates that would last until I hit the mystical growth spurt that people kept talking about.

I wasn't crying because of Grandma. She could definitely make me cry, although she was more of something to overcome than someone to get all hung up over. And Grandpa was just another dingbat. He was interesting until you found out that his bowler hat and cigars and playing cards were the most important things to him. I was crying because I felt like I had been screaming my throat raw my entire life, and nobody cared enough to ask me why. I didn't even why know anymore myself, so why should I expect someone else to care?

“I made myself sad,” I responded. Serik looked puzzled. “I’m lonely,” I explained. He shifted so that he was closer to my face. He started to comb my hair gently.

“I love you, kiddo.” Only he didn't, because he didn't even know me. He had been away from home so long that it didn't even matter anymore whether he loved me or not. I hadn't even heard from him until a few weeks ago. It had been about a year and a half since we had even directly spoken to each other! I wished that it was Misha who was combing my hair right now. He would know exactly what to say and how to metaphorically kiss it all better. I really needed to see his stupid face right about now.

“I wanna talk to Misha,” I mumbled from behind my hands. Serik made soft shushing noises. Mama used to make those whenever we cried at home. Ravil had probably told her to stop as soon as he was able to speak. He hated affection, because he thought it made him look weak. I guess I understood. He wanted to be seen as capable and strong, because what kind of man would he be if he wasn't? I did too, I guess, but I stopped understanding when it came to everything being a competition. Why couldn't everybody just be happy?

“Who’s Misha?” He asked. I pressed my face further down into the blankets.

“My best friend,” I said. I pictured him smiling in my head. I pictured his stupid capri pants that he wore all the time. I really wished that there was ballet today. Then again, Misha never needed an excuse to barge on into the apartment or the house or my grandparents’ house. It was really pathetic that I couldn't go a day without seeing him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Otabek mentions feeling like a narcissist in this chapter, and then says that you could call him 370. This is because 370 is a narcissistic number. A narcissistic number is a number that is the sum of each of it's own digits raised to the power of the number of digits. The example I use is 370. It's the sum of 3 x 3 x 3, which is 27, and 7 x 7 x 7, which is 343, and then there's zero to the third, although that's just another zero added on. When you add those together, you get 370. 
> 
> Here's another one: 153. 1 to the third plus 5 to the third plus 3 to the third. Those are 1, 125, and 27, respectively. When you add those numbers, you get 153. Totally irrelevant, I know. Numbers are pretty cool, if you ask me. 
> 
> If you didn't already know what a narcissistic number was, I hope you found this interesting!


	8. 2010.1

2010

 

Since the passing of the previous year, Serik had moved into an apartment with Myrto. I was glad, because that meant that there would be even less people in the house while I let my metronome tick. It was not only helpful for figuring things out while learning programs, but it helped me calm down when I was upset. In the summer, it was Aliya who wanted to go to our grandparents’ house. So, of course, I also went. Even though I wasn't very good at making friends, I wanted to be friends with my sister. It couldn't be that hard, right? Only it kind of was. I had skating practice four days a week, and ballet five days a week. I had abandoned jazz a few years ago, but it was still something I enjoyed. 

If you want honesty, most of the summer was rather uneventful. Aliya tried to teach me how to play football, and I was a colossal failure. I kept pointing my toes when I kicked the ball. I wasn't even supposed to kick with my toes, for the most part. I was supposed to kick with the inside of my foot. Aliya called me a ‘weak shit,’ but she didn't really mean it. I could just tell, you know? Anyway, on one of the days she was trying to teach me how to play football, Ayzere walked past. She walked over and asked if she could play, too. Aliya said sure, and we wound up passing the ball around in a triangle. Ayzere was good at receiving but had bad aim, while Aliya was better at football than most of the boys I knew. 

“Sorry,” She mumbled after the fourth time Aliya had had to sidestep to get the ball. 

“It’s fine,” Aliya said, “I like running for the ball.” Ayzere nodded and we kept passing. I was always the person who had to run off to gather the ball and bring it back. More often than not, I wound up running into the street. At one point, I was chasing after the ball and had to leap out of the way of an oncoming car. I fell on the ground and bruised my hip. The inside of my forearm stung like hell. The car screeched to a stop not long after I fell, and the driver got out. She was a portly woman with blue streaks in her hair. There were wrinkles on her face and she had a tattoo of a feather on one arm. 

“Are you crazy?!” She asked. I shrugged and got to my feet.

“I wasn't the last time I checked.” She huffed and threw her hands up angrily. She got back in her green car and drove away. I ran to the other side of the road and grabbed the ball. I considered throwing it back to the playground, where Aliya and Ayzere were waiting, but I didn't. What if I wasn't strong enough to throw the ball that far? Instead, I walked back. This time, I checked for cars. There weren't any, so I ran back across the street. I still didn't throw the ball at them. Instead, I tossed it up in the air and punted it towards them. At least, that was my goal. It flew up really high but only went out a few meters in front of me. I looked down at the ground, embarrassed, and ran back to them. I collected the ball on the way. 

“Nice kick,” Aliya chortled. 

“Shut up,” I groaned, and put the ball back on the ground. We kept it up for another hour, and I was really tired by the end of it. I was sweating, and had a newfound respect for football players. Well, the ones that weren't stupid. Ayzere complimented the little bun that Aliya had before we left. She was even quieter than I was, according to Aliya. 

“You two should have a quiet-off,” She said. I shrugged. I had heard Ayzere speak more than that. Granted, it had only been one time when we had got around to being existential behind one of the aisles in the corner store. It had been enough, though. And enough for me to be able to tell that Ayzere understood the world, and the people in it. At least, as much as a thirteen year old can. 

It didn't take long for Aliya to give up on trying to teach me how to play football. Eventually, we just wound up watching TV together. Since we were practically the same age, we should have liked the same television programs, but we didn't. She liked watching reruns of old movies that had stopped being good twenty or so years ago, and shows which were meant for five year olds. I had watched the Olympics semi-religiously with Misha when they had been happening, and instead of waiting two years to see the summer stuff, I had decided to watch dance programs. They were all pretty boring, but I wanted to see what the professional people were doing. I prefered listening to their music over watching what they were doing. 

After several hours of watching television had elapsed, we had been traced with sunshine from the windows on the other side of the room and had taken to laying on our stomachs. The spaces behind my eyes hurt a bit, so I closed them. I liked these times. I felt weightless. I was warm and even though I was a bit hungry, it didn't matter because I was content. I think I was drooling a little bit on the couch. That was okay, though. I didn't need to clean it up or anything. I hadn't moved in such a long time that it had gotten to the point where I didn't feel like I needed to move. Kind of like I wasn't supposed to move. That was a little scary, until I realized that it could be a competition between be and Aliya to see who could stay still the longest. Then again, this whole ‘staying still’ thing also meant being quiet. So what if she wasn't informed that she would be competing? It’s like when you’re in the car and imagine that you’re racing against the other cars on the highway. I didn't really like highways because of the noise that they made. 

After a while, Arman and Pooja wandered into the room. Ainia would too, if she were still alive. Last year, not long after my birthday, her little heart had stopped beating. I guess that was for the better. She was a really small dog, the kind that was always sort of vibrating. They weren't supposed to live very long. At least, that was what I had been told. Well, I say told. I had started reading things on the desktop computer at home. They say that you should never trust the Internet, but I thought that some of the things I came across were too detailed to have been faked. For example, I had learned what quarks were. And amino acids. I really liked the word quark. I had asked Grandma if she knew what a quark was, and she didn't. I told her that quarks were everything. She wasn't pleased by the fact that I knew what the universe was made out of and she didn't. Grandpa, on the other hand, had been impressed that I was taking the initiative to research these sorts of things outside of school. He said that when he had been in school, he hadn't bothered to amass any information aside from what was absolutely necessary. I was smart in his eyes. If that was the sort of thing that old people valued, then I would be his favorite grandchild. I wonder what it would be like to be somebody’s favorite. Probably nice. I wouldn't ask Ravil, though. He would tease me until the cows came home. That saying made me wonder if farmers actually had a hard time getting cows to go back into their barns. ck It was just my luck that my grandparents and parents happened to be the only portion of my family that actually lived in a city. Unfortunately, I have no idea how big my extended family is. 

I do know that Mama has a brother and a sister. She had had two sisters at some point, but, according to recent legend, one of them died. Her brother lived out in the middle of nowhere, and probably had a cow somewhere in the vast expanse of property he owned. I had only been to his house once, when I was really little. I barely remembered it, although I had been told that it was a big ass house. Mama’s sister lived out west, near the sea. Maybe that was where Serik and Myrto wanted to live. I had never been to the place where my aunt lived. I had only met her that one time when Mama brought me and my siblings out to meet our cousins when there had been a wedding. Or maybe it was the birth of a child, I don't really know. I hated the drive North, though. I hated long car trips. 

Not liking long car trips, for most people, just meant that they didn't travel a lot. For me, it wasn't all that great, though, because my mom had been talking with Ms. Utkin and I about my possible future as a figure skater. I was almost old enough to start competing in international competitions, although Ms. Utkin said that she didn't think that she could be my coach if that was what I wanted to do with my life. Both her and my mom had started to ask me if I actually wanted to compete, really compete, in figure skating. I said each time that I would love to. Watching Viktor Nikiforov and Christophe Giacometti compete in the Olympics had inspired me. They both had their own unique styles and ways that they moved. It made me happy to see men who figure skated professionally. The guys who gave me hell over skating would never treat a guy who won the Olympics like that. Maybe I could win the Olympics one day. That’d show them. 

Anyway, Ms. Utkin and Mama were asking me if I really wanted to compete and all that. I said that I did every time. I loved skating. I loved the little competitions me and some of the other students had, although I had switched over to private lessons not long ago. I was getting a lot better at my landings, or so I had been told. Ms. Utkin had started complimenting me in the way she complimented the really good students during classes, which made me feel better about myself. I guess. She told me that she believed in me, but that she couldn't coach me if I was serious about skating. Why did people keep asking me if I was serious? I very obviously was. 

Ms. Utkin explained this to me one day in July. She said that the government didn't care about sports, so I would have a really hard time getting off the ground. Nobody would want to sponsor me- as if they would anyway- and I would basically be stuck at this level without somebody who really knew what they were doing. Ms. Utkin said that her style of teaching was fun but ineffective, as it forced students to do harder things before they learned what was simple. She said that she did things that way so that it would get easier as you went along. Maybe that was why the advanced class only had seven people in it. I still couldn't believe that I was in that advanced class. So was Leyla, who had already been competing on a global scale for a year. She hadn't gone very far. I remember watching her on television in the Junior Grand Prix Final. She had brought back a third place medal from America, and that was it. She had also gone to Russia, where she had placed fifth out of six people. She had done all of that at the age of twelve, and without any special reserves of money for flying around the world. Even though I wanted to surpass her as soon as possible, I had silently cheered her on from in front of the television screen. She had worked really hard to get there. 

Maybe we could go around the world together when I got old enough. I didn't think anybody else from class had plans to compete internationally. The thing was, if Leyla and I did end up famous, I would always be in her shadow. She was so much better at everything than I was. She could land axles like nobody’s business, and she could do splits. Aside from all that, she was a total badass. Or at least I thought so. She had picked a fight with a hockey player once. And she won. I would never be able to do that. Not even if I knew how to throw a punch. 

Whatever. The point is, Ms. Utkin said that I might have to switch coaches if I wanted to become a professional figure skater. To her, the obvious solution was to send me to Russia. I guess I understood. There was a lot of ice in Russia. Plus, there happened to be a fuck ton of amazing Russian ballerinas and skaters. The idea excited me, to be honest, but it also terrified me. I wasn't very old, for one, and I wasn't fluent in Russian. On the other hand, I wanted to compete. I needed to compete. Hell, I turned laying down on the couch into a competition. And yes, it was still a competition if one of the parties hadn't been informed that they were competing. 

To go to Russia, I would need to have a passport. I would need to learn Russian. I would need to learn the conversion rate between tenges and rubles. I would need to learn about the history and current political state of the Russian Federation. I would need a place to live. I would need to find a teacher. Moving to Russia would be the hardest thing I would ever do, I swear. Even if it was the country right next door, it was a place to be afraid of. I didn't want to leave home. Not because I was going to be all sentimental or anything, but because at least Almaty was a familiar place. I knew where some of the things were and some of the people. I had a friend here. I had a mom and a sister who loved me, and some other family members whose love was questionable. But whatever. I still had a few months before I would need to actually start worrying about my future. 

Now, I would be content to just lay down on the couch and not pay attention to the world around me. Shame the world didn't share those plans. Ravil had decided to grace us with his presence after all. He showed up just before dinner. He was all gross and sweaty from football practice. He also had a very big announcement to make. It was so big and grandiose that he had to stand up to say it. 

“So. Um, yeah. I have a girlfriend now,” He said, grinning broadly. He pushed his bangs out of his eyes and bowed. Aliya let out a small whistle. Grandma smiled, and nodded in approval. 

“That’s my boy,” Grandpa said. He grinned and patted Ravil on the shoulder. 

“Whoop di doo,” I said sarcastically. I put my hands up on either side of my head and started waving them slightly. 

“What’s she like?” Aliya asked. Ravil nodded, and pointed at her. 

“Her name is Dami, and she’s really pretty. She, um, she likes FIFA and books, and she has a sister named Zhaymila. She’s funny and smart, and…yeah.” He smiled down at his plate. He was blushing. I think I’d heard him talking about Dami before. She came to his football games sometimes during school. I had thought that they were just really close friends. I also thought I knew who Zhaymila was. If I was thinking of the right person, Zhaymila was a tall and skinny girl in my year at school. She was one of the cool kids, so I didn't talk to her very much. She wore overalls and tie dyed headbands a lot. I thought she was kind of cool. She didn't strike me as someone who was fake. 

“How detailed of a description. You must have written essays on the subject,” Aliya said dryly. 

“Is Zhaymila that girl with the tie dyed headbands?” I asked. Grandma looked at me, semi surprised that I had spoken. I would’ve smirked at her if I wasn't genuinely curious if I knew who Zhaymila was or not. 

“Yeah,” Ravil said, and sat back down. He was the center of attention again, and kept shoving food into his mouth until there wasn't any more to shove in.

After dinner, I wound up washing the dishes while everybody else talked and laughed and had those perfect experiences that I wasn't sure existed but was always jealous of. I was supposed to be on my way to Misha’s house right now. Yesterday at ballet, we had made plans to have a sleepover tonight, and since I refused to let him come over to my house, he had agreed to be the host. I was happy that he didn't mind me and my familial angst. I was lucky to have a friend like him. 

I didn't wind up going to Misha’s house that night. I just called him after washing the dishes. We talked for a while. He liked to give me words to define or math problems to do aloud. I didn't mind, although I felt awkward while mumbling into the receiver about carrying numbers and splitting decimals. Misha would then insist that I was a genius. I didn't like being called a genius. I changed the topic from the things that went on in my head to how school was going for him. 

“It’s summer,” He pointed out. I had moved to lay on the table since picking up the phone, and had started scissoring my legs in the air. I grunted. 

“So? How was school?” I asked.

“You already know how it was.”

“Tell me again.” He didn't speak for a while. 

“Cool, I guess. There was more homework, and it was harder to make friends. People were so much more judgemental.” 

“The second I start junior high, my grandma is going to start asking me if I have a girlfriend yet, and she’s not going to stop until the answer is yes,” I said. Misha laughed softly. I wished that I was talking to him face to face right now. I felt the strange urge to touch his hair. It was russet colored. I had seen a picture of a russet colored cat not too long ago. I told him about that, too.

“If you were a cat, you would be black and really intimidating but also really tiny,” Misha said. This is where I would have punched him. 

“I would not be tiny! You just call me tiny all the time because you’re like five meters tall!” I said. Misha laughed softly over the receiver. 

“I’m only 164 centimeters, calm down.” 

“I’m 149.  _ One hundred forty nine _ . I’m a dwarf,” I said. 

“You’re too short to be a dwarf,” Misha joked. He was giggling while he said it. I groaned. 

“Yeah, well, airplanes bump into you. You cause plane crashes. How does that weigh on your conscience?” I shot back. It was impossible to make good jokes about people being tall. When I got tall like him, I would be making the jokes and not the other way around. And maybe people would stop thinking I was in kindergarten. 

“I’m distraught,” He said in the most maliciously happy voice known to humankind. 

“Oh, shut up!” I shouted. Misha laughed. I didn't say anything. His laugh was nice. It made me want to laugh with him. After he finished laughing, neither of us said anything. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine him laying on that damn table next to me. If I ignored the noises coming from the living room, we could be anywhere in the entire world. We wouldn't be in a shitty suburban-ish area near Almaty. We could be in the Iberian plains, or a field in a jungle. As long as it was quiet and there were no rules about what you could say or do. 

With closed eyes, I pulled the speaker flush against my ear. I could hear him breathing softly. If it didn't sound so staticy, I might actually believe that I was with Misha. I wanted to have a repeat of our unintentional sleepover, only this time without the movie. 

“Otabek?” He asked softly. I jumped a little bit at the sound of my name. 

“Hmm?” 

“What are you thinking about right now?” I didn't answer right away. It wasn't because I was thinking about what I was thinking about, though. I was thinking about what I had said before, about Grandma asking me about whether or not I had a girlfriend yet. I did know a few girls that I wouldn't mind dating. 

“Girls,” I said. He hummed softly.

“Does Otabek I-hate-everything Altin like somebody?” He asked. I swear I would have slapped him if I could. Oh man, I was blushing now. I stopped scissoring my legs and sat up. I felt dizzy. I didn't want to talk about girls. I didn't think I felt the same way about women as Ravil. Then again, I didn't like boys in the romantic sense either. I didn't think actors in movies or the models on the covers of magazines were sexy or anything. I wasn't like everybody else, and I didn't like the way it made me feel. It scared the shit out of me when people brought up romance. Mostly because of people like the boy I ran into in the parking lot last year. Misha knew about him, obviously. After I told him the story, he hugged me for what felt like an hour and told me that nobody had the right to talk to me that way. For some reason, that only made me feel worse about myself. I asked him to stop hugging me. 

And now I was thinking. What if I wasn't normal? What if I was exactly what the Parking Lot Boy said I was? 

“I don't like anybody romantically,” I said. I was suddenly tired. 

“Are you sure?” He sang. 

“Shut the fuck up, will you?” I snapped. I felt guilty for snapping. 

“What’s her name?” 

“Fuck off!” I shouted, “I don't want to talk about girls, or liking people at all!” Misha didn't say anything. If we were in a field where everything was perfect, the wind had started blowing in that way that made me feel like I was going to blow away. Like, maybe it could rip me to pieces. I hated feeling like that. I felt that way while that boy had been talking to me in the parking lot. 

“Okay.” The wind didn't settle down. It brought in rain, in fact. Both in my head and outside the window. How fitting. I rolled onto my stomach and let the phone drop onto the table. 

“I miss you,” He whispered. That made me laugh.

“We live in the same city.” 

“And hey, weren't you supposed to come over to my house tonight?” 

“Nothing gets past you after an hour of missing it,” I commented. 

“Shut up,” He said, “I’d still like you to come over, though. If that’s possible.” I left the table, and walked into my grandparents’ bedroom. There was a clock hanging on the wall between their bed and the closet. It was almost eight o’clock.

“Maybe. Maybe not. I didn't even tell my grandparents that we were supposed to do that today. They just know that we made the plan,” I lied. They didn't know that we had plans at all. 

“I wish you were here,” Misha said. 

“I wish you were here,” I echoed. Simple as that. We talked for another while, until Grandma yelled at me to put the phone down and go to sleep.

“I have to go,” I said. 

“Parting is such sweet sorrow,” He said in that overly flamboyant way of his. He giggled softly, and then said, “Bye.” and then the line went dead. I’m pretty sure he quoted Shakespeare at me as part of his goodbye. 

“Now go to bed,” Grandma told me after I put the phone down. 

“You know, I was actually supposed to go to Misha’s house tonight,” I said to her. She glanced down at me.

“Is that so?” She asked. I nodded. 

“I’m sorry for not telling you.” She scoffed. 

“Well, it’s too late to leave the house now. Go to sleep.” And that was that. The next morning, Ravil showered and I wondered why I was still alive. I hated mornings. And morning people. They expected you to be able to dance through the entirety of Swan Lake with a smile on your face as soon as you had rolled out of bed. And I had never even listened to Swan Lake. Still, there was ballet to attend and a Misha to see. Possibly another sleepover to arrange and take part in. As it turned out, we did not arrange another sleepover. I almost managed to do a split, although almost is kind of a stretch. My crotch was still quite a ways from the floor. In other news, a blister on my left foot had popped and started bleeding at some point in the middle of class. I had no idea how or when it started bleeding, but that was how it was. The guy next to me squeaked when he noticed, and class stopped momentarily while I ran to get a paper towel so that I could clean it up. The instructor gave me a band aid to put on my foot. 

After class, I went to the bathroom to pee. When I came back, Misha was still in the studio. He had grabbed one of the barres and dragged it out to the middle of the room. He was stretching one leg by propping it up on the barre, but before long he was hanging from it. The instructor, who had started eating pistachios from a ziploc bag, told Misha not to hang on the bar, as it wasn't meant to be hung from, but he kept hanging anyway. I walked over to him.

“Hi,” He said. I grunted. He was wearing capris again. I looked at the small portions of his legs that were showing. The hair there was blond instead of red. I grabbed one of his legs, which made him yelp in surprise and come down from where he was hanging. 

“What was that for?” He asked.

“Look,” I said, “The hair on your legs is blond.” He rolled his eyes, as if to say ‘duh’. I stuck out one of my legs. “The hair on my legs is also blond.” 

“We’re leg buddies,” He said, and touched my ankle with his left index finger. It was the soft part of my skin, just below the bone. I pulled my leg away.

“Shouldn't we be leaving?” I asked. He nodded, as if the idea had only just occurred to him. Misha and I each lifted up one side of the barre and carried it back to where it was supposed to be. We changed back into our street clothes, and put our ballet shoes into our bags. Well, at least he put both of his shoes into the bag. I wasn't going to put a bloody slipper into a bag with a white shirt. It’s not like my shoe was dripping blood or anything, no, there was just a small damp spot. The closest it had gotten to dripping blood had been during class when there was blood staining the inside of my shoe and didn't notice as I moved around the room, and effectively smeared blood all over the floor.

I sat in a chair while pulling on my Nike shoes. They had been hand me downs from Ravil. Like everything I got from him, these didn't fit right. The heel was too wide and my toes had way too much room. There was a tear in one of the mesh toes, showing that my feet really were too small to fit into my brother’s shoes. To make things more embarrassing, these had been his shoes when he was nine. And I was eleven. 

Misha wore keens during the summer, which gave him slightly odd tan lines on his feet. Well, I say tan. If Misha was standing naked in front of a wall that was painted white, he would be pretty well camouflaged. If you weren't looking at his hair. Or his face. But yes, Misha was probably the palest person I knew. 

When we walked outside, Grandma was waiting for me. She had left the Jeep and was leaning against the hood with her arms crossed. She waved me over. 

“Bye,” Misha said, and waved. He put one hand on my shoulder, as if he was about to say something else, and then ran off towards the bookstore.  

“Bye,” I said back. I walked over to the car. 

“Beka, why did you two take so long after class?” Grandma demanded as soon as I was in front of her. I held up my bloody shoe.

“I started bleeding and had to clean up,” I lied. I wondered why that was. It would just feel weird for me to say  _ I’m late because my friend was stretching and we talked about our leg hair _ . So I got into the car. She got in as well. 

“Are you okay? Are you still bleeding?” I shook my head no. 

“I’m fine.” When we got home, she washed my shoe in the sink. I set it on the windowsill in the bedroom I shared with Aliya. I would say I had watched it dry if I actually had. Instead, I re-read the book that Misha had bought me for my last birthday. It was about the Soviet space program during the Cold War. I didn't see why the book had so much in it about that Yuri Gagarin fellow. He was just the guy in the capsule, not the guy who engineered it.

The rest of the summer passed in a similar fashion: Wake up, lay around, go to ballet or skating, or ballet and skating, and then come home to lay around and talk with Aliya. It stayed like this until the end of the summer. I was scheduled to compete in that end of summer competition again. At that point, we had most of the things concerning future training figured out. I was going to go to Russia after the end of the next school year finished. I was afraid and exhilarated at the thought. I wasn't supposed to stay very long, just for the summer, before coming home. Probably more pale and with a slight accent. 

Anyway, that was the plan. Mama and I, although mostly Mama, had set things up so that I would have a place to live. I was going to go to Saint Petersburg and attend boarding school there. And I would make Ravil jealous in the process, because I was going to get a cell phone. He didn't have one, and I did. It was like being told that Mama loved and believed in me. Aliya thought it was really cool that I was leaving the country so young. Ravil told me not to chicken out while I was in Russia, and to kick their asses. I’m not quite sure what he wanted me to kick their asses at, (Skating? Ballet? In general?) but it sounded like a compliment. Like he believed that I could actually kick Russia’s ass. I reminded him that I wasn't leaving for another nine months. 

“You could have a baby in that amount of time,” Aliya remarked, staring off at nothing. Ravil snickered, 

“Yeah, like Beka’s going to get some girl pregnant before he fucks off to Russia.” 

“I’m not ‘fucking off to Russia,’ dipshit,” I said. Ravil rolled his eyes at me. 

“Does it even really matter what you’re doing?” I shrugged. 

“Does anything ever really matter?” 

“This? Again? I refuse to speak to you anymore,” He said. He didn't like talking to me when I got all existential. I only really did it in his presence for the sake of annoying him. 

Anyway, aside from me fucking off to Russia, I had to get my program for the end of summer competition down. Why? Because it was already August and I still had a lot of work to do. I spent a lot of time practicing through the first two weeks of the month, although I still didn't feel like I was good enough, and the competition was just around the corner. I would be competing against guys who were, like, fourteen this year, and that scared me. What if I wasn't good enough to beat a bunch of fourteen year olds? Ms. Utkin assured me that my program was fine, although it needed to be better than fine. It had to be perfect. Or at least, good enough to win. Good enough to get some prize money. I could use that to go to Russia. Mama had said that she would pay for the boarding school tuition, and the plane fare. I still wanted to pay for it out of my own pocket, though. And right now, I didn't have pockets to pay from. So obviously, winning the end of summer competition was the only option, even if there wasn't very much money in winning. It would be better than nothing. 


	9. 2010.2

I didn't really realize how fast time moved until it was the third Wednesday of August. I was supposed to have had everything perfect by now. I hated myself for not being able to do some of the things I had to. It just meant I was lazy and didn't push hard enough. So I practiced more than I usually would. I went to the rink on days when I didn't have to. I practiced from the moment I was allowed to set foot on the ice until a zamboni arrived to clean it up for hockey practice. That kind of sucked, because the hockey players would always be waiting for everybody else to leave ‘their’ rink. They liked to pick on me because I was the only boy who figure skated during public hours. There were other boys in the skating class I had been in, however, they didn't go out and parade that they could skate for all the world to see. If only the hockey players didn't wear helmets. I would totally punch all of them in the face if I knew how. Especially this one guy. It had taken me awhile to realize, but behind the metal net that covered half of his face, he was the Parking Lot Boy. 

He didn't stop bugging me, either. Typically, he just called me a fag when I walked past. It was fine, though. I was used to boys calling me names. I had learned not to care. It stopped hurting me a while ago. But whatever. I made the mistake of asking Misha to come and see my program. I guess I was so self absorbed that I needed an untrained eye to compliment me. How pathetic. It was almost polished off, though, so I guess anything anybody had to say would help. Misha might be able to tell me that the positioning of my fingers was awful or that he could see how unbalanced I was after some of the more difficult jumps I had planned. 

He told me he would love to see my routine, and so we made plans. I suddenly found that I no longer liked the verb ‘plan’. I wondered why that was. Maybe it was like when you say a word a bunch of times and then it doesn't sound like a word anymore. Then again, I hadn't said plan. I had just thought the word so many times that it was old now. Nevermind my late onset aversion to the word plan, though. I was waiting for Misha to finish tying his skates. 

“You tie your skates really fast,” He commented. I shrugged. 

“I tie them more often than you.” It took him another minute to finish tying his skates. I wondered if my head would even meet his shoulders if he was wearing skates and I was barefoot. He didn't have guards for the blades, though. Ha. His blades would dull in no time. Well, they would if this wasn't a public rink where there was carpeting on all the floors. Or if he was to just go for a stroll through town with his skates on, which he probably wouldn't. I didn't think he was that irresponsible, although from knowing his parents, I wouldn't put it past him. 

His dad had showed me a tattoo on the back of his shoulder once that Misha had purportedly inked. It was a badly drawn picture of a boat with a dog over top of it. I didn't think it was safe to let a child use the tattooing pens for that. Misha also already had a bunch of ideas for piercings he wanted to get. It didn't make sense to me that he was allowed to use the tattoo pens yet he wasn't allowed to have piercings. I did see the appeal, though. Maybe when I stopped ice skating I could work for Misha’s dad. That would be nice. His dad had deep pockets and was about the kindest man I’ve ever met. 

I stepped onto the ice before Misha did. The rink wasn't very crowded. Probably because it was a little after ten ante-meridian on a Tuesday. There were a few young adults, three girls learning to skate, and a handful of hockey players to occupy the rink. I still felt on edge. The hairs on the back of my neck were at attention and I was aware of my own breathing. That’s how bad it was. Maybe it was just me being nervous about letting Misha see me skate, maybe it was because of the hockey players. Or maybe it was both. Probably both. I couldn't help but stare at them. They were palling around, as one might say. They were talking and shoving at each other and practicing their speed skating. I always did a double take when I saw hockey skates, for some reason. I mean, I  _ knew _ they didn't have the toe pick. It still surprised me.

“So? Are you going to show me or what?” Misha asked, after we had completed a few laps around the rink. He was skating normally, and I was going backwards. I was also grapevining. It didn't go very well, obviously. Not because I couldn't skate backwards, though. Or because I couldn't grapevine on ice. I could do both of those things fine, thank you very much. It was just putting them together that was the hard part. 

Misha’s voice surprised me, and caused me to trip. I fell, and put an arm out to catch myself. The cold seeped through my leggings and when I stood up again, the entire side of my body, from my calf up to my hip, was covered in snow. It melted quickly, though. That wasn't really a concern of mine, as I had sort of jammed my wrist when I landed. It was fine after I shook it out a few times, though. 

“What? Oh, um, yeah,” I said. I skated over so that I was more in the center of the rink. I was alone. Well, not alone alone, but alone enough that it felt like I was performing for everybody in the room. The little girls learning the basics of figure skating were off to the side. They were also in the spotlight, but I was definitely more in the spotlight than they were. I was posing, after all. I was also holding eye contact with Misha. He was leaning against the wall and staring at me. I stared back. I had to get on with it. I started to move, skating backwards in the beginning. 

I finished in about two minutes. I had messed up on one of the step sequences and had fallen out of three jumps. My leggings were soaked. I fell into the ending pose, and stayed frozen for as long as I could. It wasn't very long, because I started to slide a little bit. See, only one of my feet was on the ice. I was also struggling to pant through my nose. I probably sounded like a bull or something. That was gross. I needed to sound like a fairy. I wondered what fairies sounded like. They probably hissed and were naturally capable of making that twinkling sound effect noise with their mouths. 

“So? How was it?” I asked. He was smiling. Damn his smile, and damn his dimples.

“Stop clapping!” I shouted, and stomped the ice with one foot. My voice cracked. Could I not do anything right today? 

“No, you were great! It’s always so cool to see you skate!” Misha said.

“Well, give me notes,” I said. He tilted his head to the side. 

“Notes?” 

“Tell me what you think I could do better.” He shrugged. 

“I’m not a figure skater, Otabek, so it looked awesome to me.” I groaned. He was right, though. I should’ve shown my routine to somebody who could actually tell me how to improve. It was pretty stupid of me. Whatever. At least we were at the rink. 

“Does it even really matter? Can't we just skate?” He asked. That pissed me off. Of course we couldn't just skate! The competition was a week away and I had to be perfect. There were going to be boys who were older than me, and they would all be so much more talented. They had so much more time to perfect their skills than I did. It didn't matter that I spent so much time practicing and training to get better. They had spent more time on their craft than me. Then again, I had come in second the past two years. I have no idea how I managed to do that. I had put the other medal on the doorknob to my bedroom along with the first. They clanged against each other and the door whenever anyone moved it. They sort of acted like a doorbell. It was actually very annoying. Every time I touched the door, I told myself to just move the damn medals. They had scratched a small line in the white paint on the door. Last December, there had been light coming into the hallway from a window. The way the light hit the door made me want to paint it lavender. 

“I want to win, so yes, it does matter,” I said. If I won gold, I would certainly not be hanging the medal on my door. I would probably drape it over the lamp that was next to my bed at home. Every day when I woke up, I could see it and be reminded of my goals. Then again, didn't every little kid dream of greatness? I bet every young athlete had a thing in their mind, be it a world championship or national trophy, that they wanted to win one day. I wanted to win the Olympics. I guess that’s pretty basic, though. Everybody thinks about winning the Olympics. I’d also like to learn to play the piano, which is a more achievable goal. Still pretty basic, though. 

“If you want to win, then you should chill out. Pun not intended.” He giggled softly at his coincidental joke. 

“It wasn't very funny,” I said. Although he was right. There was a space that one could be in where they weren't tense or overworked, and right now I was way too tense. I didn't feel overworked, but hey, what did I know about limits, considering how often I tried to push them? 

“Shut up and skate with me,” Misha said. He moved away from the wall and hooked one arm around my shoulders. He started to pull me along so that we could skate around the rink together. I wanted to put one of my arms around him too. The idea made me blush. The last time I went to one of Ravil’s football games, he had put one arm around his girlfriend. Just like I wanted to do. Just like what Misha was doing. Was that something you were only allowed to do with your significant other? I had only ever seen couples doing it. That brought up another question. Why didn't I ever see a people of the same sex being romantic with each other? I had seen a movie once where I was simply waiting for two of the women to wind up in a romantic relationship, but then one of them wound up with the male lead. There was barely any relationship between the two of them, and I had no idea why they wound up together. It would make much more sense, plot-wise, for the two women to kiss at the end. 

Movies aside, were you allowed to put your arm around your friend, or was that something reserved for couples? Would people think we were a couple if I had an arm around him? We weren't gay, if that was the question. I thought that girls were pretty, I guess, and they had nice hair. I’d like to have long hair some day. And wear makeup. I would never put on a skirt, though. I hated the way they brushed against your thighs. I only knew what skirts feel like because of my skating costume. It was the one that I had worn at the end of summer competition two years ago, and it had a skirt. Last year, I had just worn black leggings and a black shirt. 

As we started to actually go somewhere, I found myself staring at the hockey kids. What if they noticed us? What if they came over to give out unwanted attention? I mean, I was pretty much in Misha’s armpit. My arm was squished between the two of us. I wanted to put my arm around him, I really did. I just didn't want to get noticed by the hockey players. I didn't want to get called any names. I saw the way they looked at me. People always thought it was weird for a boy to be in a ‘girl’s sport’. And then there were all the times I had been called a fag. 

Shit, I was staring at them. What if they noticed us? I pushed Misha’s arm off of me. 

“Race you around the rink!” I shouted. My voice was quite loud. I didn't want it to be loud, though. It was only loud because of what I was thinking about, though. If I wasn't panicking needlessly over people I didn't even know the names of, it would’ve been quieter. See, I knew it was stupid to worry about what they thought because they were narrow minded dicks who couldn't cope with things outside of themselves, but that was exactly why I was worrying. Hockey was a violent game, after all. 

“Sure!” Misha chirped. We skated over to the line that marked out a defensive area in a game of hockey. 

“Go!” He shouted, and sped away almost as soon as he had opened his mouth. I took a step into the ice, digging in with the toe pick, and pushed myself forward. He wasn't wearing hockey skates, but he was skating the way you would see a hockey player skate. He was bent down low, his knees near his armpits. He was swinging his arms as he loped, going fast but not fast enough. I could go faster. I had been grapevining backwards earlier, after all. I sped up, loping taller and faster. Well, not taller, but faster. I wound up coming to the line just before he did. Although, I guess you could call it a tie, considering we had been almost touching each other since the final turn. I may have elbowed him at one point, but it was totally accidental. Not in the way some people do ‘totally accidental’ things, though. I mean my elbow smashed into his upper arm and we both made little noises of pain. But anyway. Misha declared himself the winner. 

“I won!” He said, excited. I shook my head.

“I won.”

“In what world did you win?” He asked, “Besides, you cheated back there. With the elbow.” I rolled my eyes, and crossed my arms. 

“Please, you were the one running me into the wall.” 

“I did no such thing!” He protested. I really wished I could raise one eyebrow right about now. Instead, I raised both of them. 

“Really? Because I remember having to slow down so I wouldn't hit you or the wall!” I said. Misha giggled softly and tapped my forehead. 

“You’re forgetting that you elbowed me, which was cheating.”

“If that’s cheating, then so is running me into the damn wall.” 

“I did no such thing,” He protested. He turned up his nose, which kind of made me want to smile, laugh softly, and punch his arm. Instead, I snorted and then punched his arm. 

“You sly dog,” I said, and started to skate forward again, “I won.” 

“I won!” He said, and followed me. I shook my head. 

“But you cheated. And didn't skate fast enough,” I said. I felt kind of happy. 

“I didn't cheat! If anyone cheated, it was you, with that elbow thing,” Misha shot back. He shoved me gently. I rolled my eyes. 

“It wasn't cheating, and it wouldn't have happened if you had just stayed in a straight line!” 

“Why would I do that when I could stay in any other type of line? Like a squiggle. Don't tell me you have something against squiggles,” Misha said. 

“I have no death wish for squiggles,” I said, and crossed my arms. I glared at this one hockey player who had started looking at us. Why did they have to wear those stupid cages as part of their helmets? It made it a lot harder to recognize them. And why did they even wear helmets outside of game time? I took a deep breath. I needed to calm down. There was nothing wrong with what we were doing. A guy skating with his friends couldn't tell another guy that it was gay to skate with his friend. And if one of them did, I would just bring that point up or break his penis. The prospect of having a broken penis terrified me. How would I pee? And, of course, it would hurt. That too. Would I have to have a cast on my penis? That didn't sound like it would be very comfortable, or easy to get on. And would the application of the penis cast cause an erection? The cast would be functional for a little bit, but then it would just be plain uncomfortable. And that’s not even bringing up what it would look like from an outside perspective. I shuddered at the thought. So maybe I wouldn't break the penis of a hockey player. I didn't hate them that much. 

“You okay?” Misha asked. I looked up at him.

“What?” 

“Nothing, you just seemed a bit startled.” He was staring straight ahead. I observed his cheeks and jawline. His cheeks were round and his jaw wasn't particularly defined. It was a nice arc, though. I don't think I could draw a line like that without a compass. He was like me, just a little pudgy. Only he wasn't ugly. 

“No, I was just thinking about how much it would suck to have a broken penis.” Why in the ever loving fuck did I say that? And why did I say it just as we were right next to the hockey players? Did I have a death wish or something? I wanted to punch myself. 

“Yeah, that would be unfortunate,” Misha mumbled. 

“Right? I mean, you would have to wear a cast so that you could fix it, and that’s just all kinds of awful,” I said. Why was I still continuing this conversation? I could hear the hockey players snickering softly. 

“Well, there’s no bones in your penis, so it can't be that bad. Unless you’re hiding a bone in your boner,” Misha said, chuckling at the last part. I rolled my eyes.

“That wasn't even funny. And, yeah, that’s true. I think it’s like what would happen to a girl if she was having a baby and her vagina got all messed up,” I said. I really didn't know. 

“Wait. How would you even break your penis in the first place?” Misha asked. I shrugged.  

“Sex, probably.” 

“How would you break your penis during sex?” He asked.  

“Well, actually-” 

“Who’s your boyfriend, faggot?!” The cry was followed by howls of laughter. I’m pretty sure ‘who’s your boyfriend, faggot’ echoed throughout the rink a few times before dying off. I was torn between wanting to hurt the person who had said that as well as everyone who laughed and wanted to melt into the ice and remain there for the rest of time. I think I understood then why Misha didn't like being called a fag. That’s not to say that I liked being called a fag; I don't, but until then, I had never really minded. But this time, I was filled with rage. I turned around. 

“He is not my boyfriend. We’re not even gay! So what if we think figure skating is fun? So fucking what?! There is nothing, absolutely  _ nothing _ , wrong with a boy liking something that is ‘reserved’ for women! It doesn't make me, or him, or anybody homosexual to like a certain thing!” I shouted. I was really glad there were a good two meters between me and the closest hockey player. He looked mad. Misha grabbed my wrist. 

“We should go-” 

“No!” I shouted, and wrenched my arm away. One of the hockey players stepped forward. He wasn't wearing his helmet. I was able to recognize him as the boy who came up to me in the parking lot that one day. I was afraid of him. 

“So,” He said, and poked me square in the chest. “What’s new with you, you gay little cunt?” Misha turned around to speak.

“That’s a bit far-” I made a fist and brought it to the face of the Parking Lot Boy. If Misha could be brave like that, so could I. Unfortunately, bravery wasn't enough. On impact, there was a satisfying cracking sound. If I had hit his nose, I would have been worried it was broken. But the thing was, I hit his cheek. My knuckles hit along his cheekbone and my fingertips slammed into his cheek. My thumb, which was wrapped up in my other fingers, felt like it was popping. Like, in the way your joints feel when you crack them, or when they click into place. My wrist was suddenly full of an acute pain. I yanked my hand away. Something wasn't right. Was it just that I had never punched somebody before? No, that couldn't be it. I’d seen people get punched and they always seemed to be in a lot more pain than the person punching them. So why did my hand hurt so much?

Well, not my hand. Rather, my thumb and my wrist. They felt like they were being stabbed. I tried to shake hand, but that only made it hurt worse. 

“Fuck!” I hissed, and stared down at my hand. What was wrong with me?

“You fuckn’ bitch!” The boy shouted. He had slid backwards and was now clutching his face. “The hell’s your problem?” 

“I’m sorry,” I said, and started to skate away. There were eyes following me. I could feel them. However, I was more concerned with my hand. It hurt a lot, and not in the burning way your knees hurt when you scrape them. It was more like the marrow in my bones was being extracted. I’ve never had my marrow extracted, but I had read that they didn't give you an anesthetic when they did it. Which just sounded like bad planning to me, but I digress. My hand ached, kind of like a really bad bruise or an overly exerted muscle. My wrist hurt like hell and it showed no signs of stopping. My thumb, on the other hand, was kind of numb and lifeless. It looked blue-ish. This certainly hadn't happened to Misha when he had punched Nuroski.

“Oh my God, Otabek, are you okay?” Misha asked. He had his hands on my shoulders again. Even though he had done it hundreds, maybe thousands, of times in the past, I felt weird this time. Like I had just done a million sit ups. 

“No,” I said. Without moving my wrist, I raised my hand up to eye level. “Something’s wrong with my hand.” Misha pulled me closer and rested his head on top of my head. He hugged me tightly. 

“You scared me so bad!” He pulled away. He looked at the ice, and then back to me. His cheeks were red. I wondered why that was. 

“You should ask somebody for help.” 

“Who?” 

“I don't know! A-A staff member or something?” We wound up using this payphone that was attached to the wall next to the rentals counter. It took us a while to find enough money on the ground to make a call. All that happened during that time was that my wrist was starting to hurt too much for me to move it, and bruises were forming in a bracelet shape. It really annoyed me. It probably would have been better if I had chosen to abstain from collecting money off the floor, to be honest. My thumb had started looking pretty swollen. At the same time, it was blue-ish and felt like ice. My wrist was still warm and whenever I moved it, I felt a sharp pain. It was making my eyes water. In short, my right hand was pretty messed up. 

Misha fed the coins into the telephone, and was about to dial the phone number for me as well, but then drew his hand away. 

“Sorry,” He mumbled. He started wringing his hands. He was standing so close to me while I debated calling the phone at home or at my grandparents’ house. I could feel his breath in my hair. It made me shiver a little bit. But only a little. I was still pretty preoccupied by who to call. I decided eventually on calling my mother, and dialled the number. Misha put one hand on my right shoulder when I lifted the phone to my ear. I shrugged him off, and turned around to face him. 

“Stop it,” I mumbled. He nodded, and pretended to zip his lips. I bit the inside of my bottom lip, and kept waiting for Mama to pick the damn phone up. She did on the third ring.

“Hello? Who is this?” She asked. I wanted to cry, all of a sudden. I really missed Mama. 

“H-Hey, Mama. It’s Otabek,” I said softly. I could practically hear her smiling. 

“Hi, Beka. What’s- What’s up? Why are you calling me in the middle of the day, is something wrong?” She asked. I nodded, even though she couldn't see me. 

“I, um, I hurt myself. Pretty bad.” 

“Oh no! What happened?” She asked. 

“I’m at the rink, and a boy was making fun of me and calling me gay, so I punched him. A-And now my hand is messed up,” I explained. Misha’s hand was on my shoulder again. Mama huffed angrily. I wondered what she thought about homosexuality. Grandma and Grandpa didn't approve of it, that much was obvious, but I’d never talked about it with Mama before. 

“Oh, Beka…People like that make me so mad! Can you wait until I can drive to the rink?” I nodded again. It didn't make sense that I was still doing that. I knew that she couldn't see me, and yet, I carried on nodding.

“Yeah,” I said. 

“Okay, we’re going to see the doctor…” She mumbled, “I love you.” And then she hung up. I held the phone to my ear a little while longer, and then put it back on the receiver. I turned away from the phone. Misha was still right behind me. Or rather, right in front of me now. He looked really scared. His eyebrows were together, about to get married, and his forehead was wrinkled in concern. His eyes were usually easy to read, but in that moment, I was illiterate. 

“Um…Misha?” He jumped. 

“Y-Yes?” He sounded weird.

“My mom is gonna pick me up in a few minutes. Do you want a ride home?” He nodded, and then hesitated for a moment before throwing his arms around my shoulders. He held fast for a moment before breaking away.  

“Ugh, you’re so brave!” He whined, “But also kind of stupid. That was stupid and risky and- and-”

“But you punched Nuroski that one time!” I pointed out. 

“That doesn't mean you can punch whoever you like!” He yelled. His face was bright red and his eyes were blown wide. His voice sounded like it had just raised ten octaves. 

“A-And mess your thumb up- Oh, I’m a terrible influence, aren't I?” He asked. He pulled my injured hand from where it had been hanging at my side. I gasped without opening my mouth. The way he had yanked my hand away shot a new round of pain into my hand. 

“Ow!” I shouted, and yanked my hand away. That was about the worst thing I could’ve done. It just made everything hurt more. 

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” Misha gasped, and brought his hands to his mouth. I have no idea why people do that. It looks pretty weird, in my opinion. 

“It’s fine, Misha. It’s my fault for punching that loser. We should probably take our skates off, though.” He nodded, and we walked over to the benches, where he untied his skates much faster than I did. It was understandable. Most of the basic functions that were necessary to untie the skates were difficult at the moment due to the pain in my thumb and wrist. 

“Wait, Otabek. How were you holding your hand when you hit him?” Misha asked, in the middle of untying his second skate. I looked up, and made the same fist with my left hand. 

“Otabek! That’s not the right way to make a fist! When you punch like that, it breaks your hand!” That had me confused. There was more than one way to make a fist? 

“How do you do it the right way?” I asked. He made a fist. His thumb was in front of his index and middle fingers. Oh. My fingers had been wrapped around my thumb. I guess that was why I was in so much pain, and why my thumb was probably broken. I nodded in response to that and bent down to continue working on untying my skates. God, this was annoying, and it took so long with a broken hand. After a lot of work and a blood rush to my head, I managed to get the skates untied and off of my feet. I felt all wobbly now. I mean, more so than before. It always felt weird to be five centimeters shorter after being tall for a while. And it always made my knees wobbly, for some reason. I felt like I didn't have a solid grip on the floor. Which was just plain weird. 

I put my skates in their bag and put my sneakers back on. Misha came with me to wait outside for Mama to show up. When she did, Misha and I both sat in the back seat of the car. She fussed over me for a little while, while Misha just stared at me the entire car ride to his house. When we got there, he unbuckled his seatbelt and gave me a quick hug before leaving the car and running up the steps to his house. His face had been flushed bright red. I wondered why. 

Mama drove to the hospital, where, after several hours of waiting and quite a few interrogations about my pain later, my hand was x rayed. As it turns out, my wrist had a small fracture and the bone in my thumb was broken in two. I stared at the x ray for a while. Were my hands really that small? Anyway, after a few more boring conversations, I had to put a splint on my wrist and another one on my thumb. I was told not to skate or dance for a few days, which felt like a death sentence, and after sitting around to have a few more useless conversations, we were allowed to go home. Mama had already called Grandma and Grandpa to tell them what had happened while we had been waiting in the lobby of the hospital for a nurse. By the time we were in the car again, it was almost time for dinner. 

“Where do you want to spend the night?” Mama asked. She pushed her hair out of her forehead, but didn't pay it any attention when it fell right back to where it had been before. 

“Home,” I said softly. And so home we went. Even though I had only been away from home a few days, I missed it dreadfully. Grandma and Grandpa’s house smelled weird, and I didn't trust the blankets for the first few nights of every year. They felt clean and different and didn't smell familiar yet. I also didn't like the way the quilts felt, although that was because at home, I slept under a faded yellow blanket with pictures of elephants on it. It was torn and had stains from food and nail polish. It was made of the same type of material as the bean bag that Ravil kept on his side of our room. I didn't like blankets made of wool, because they would scratch my body all night long, and then I would scratch myself in my sleep. Once, I had woken up with scratches on my stomach so intense I thought I might bleed. That had really freaked me out. They were healed now, but at the time all I could think about was how much my stomach stung and how weird it was to sleep under a wool blanket.

I wondered to myself why I was still going to my grandparents’ house. I didn't have much of a reason to go anymore, to be honest. I just felt like I had to. Tradition, I guess. Like how I hated having birthday parties but had one every year. Mama would always invite all of the younger siblings of Ravil’s friends that were the same age as me so that I wouldn't feel lonely. The only person I had ever invited was Misha. I might’ve invited Ayzere if I knew more about her than what was on the surface. To be honest, I kind of wished that Misha would become friends with her so that I wouldn't have to put a lot of work into making a friend myself. But then again, Misha had no reason to be hanging out in a corner store near my grandparents’ house. Or did he? No, he really didn't. Unless he decided one day to move in with them, which was highly unlikely. Not that I would mind or anything, in fact, I would be overjoyed to be roommates with Misha. Maybe when we grew up we could move in together. No, he would want to keep living with his parents. 

I decided to walk to the corner store at about one in the afternoon. I was too stupid to bring money, so when I wandered in, I just kept wandering until I found Yosef. I sat next to him until he got mad at me for ignoring him. He started to rub himself up against my legs, but not in the happy way. He was demanding my attention. And I gave it to him. I liked cats. I mean, I also liked dogs. If I didn't, I would have spent a lot more time complaining about spending the summers with Arman, Ainia, and Pooja. I thought that Arman was my favorite of the dogs. He was broad shouldered and had gray hairs throughout his pelt. He seemed like he had seen things, like a grizzled old man who had come home from a war. He was quiet, other than those times every now and then when he would sigh heavily. If he were human, it would seem almost wise. But he wasn't, and all the time, people just saw him as a dog. 

That’s not to say I didn't think of him as a dog. I did. I just wished he was something more, so that I could talk to him about his life. Then again, he probably wouldn't want to talk to me. I was boring and had no titles to flash in people’s faces. I mean, I had made the promise to myself that I was going to win the competition next week, but that wasn't really a title to hold myself to. It was more of a thing that someone was holding just out of my reach. And let me say, it pissed me off. I wasn't sure if I had what it took, but I happened to be of the opinion that I wasn't one hundred percent shit at figure skating. 

It’s pretty irrelevant, but I was also kind of excited to put on stage makeup again. I mean, I didn't even have to wear that much, but I liked the feeling that it gave me. I looked in the mirror before performing last year and I looked like a version of me that sucked less. If foundation and eyeliner could do that by themselves, imagine what real makeup could do. The version of me that looked like he had been slightly airbrushed (but only a little) was probably taller, thinner, and had a deeper voice. He was also probably inexplicably good at figure skating for how supine I was. But whatever. I had to focus on getting the program down right now. I had learned it all, and Ms. Utkin said that all we had left to do was fine tuning. I didn't believe her. She didn't like to throw compliments all over the place unless you were the top of the class. She had joked about me competing against Leyla once in the past and it had felt like a punch to the stomach. She hadn't outright stated that I would lose, but she’d insinuated the hell out of it. 

After petting Yosef for a while, I noticed that Ayzere was standing in front of me. I looked up at her. 

“Do you want to feed him?” She asked. I nodded, and she reached out her hand. I grabbed it and she yanked me up. Yosef wasn't pleased with that. He hissed softly and stuck his tail in the air. She lead me behind the counter, where there was a door that I had never seen opened. She opened it. It was the door to a storage room. 

“Hold the door,” She mumbled, and I did. She walked to the back of the storage room and opened up a small ziploc bag. It was full of cat treats. I noticed that her hair was really, really long. It came down to her waist, which I thought was amazing. I don't know how she managed it. It would be awful to have so much hair on the back of your neck all the time, and it was probably hell to have to brush it every morning. I might ask her about it some time in the future. 

When she came back to the doorway, she handed me the cat treat and wandered away. Her mom was busy ringing up a customer and Yosef was walking haughtily in little circles where I had left him. So I walked back over and set the treat down in front of him. He didn't have an opinion for the first few seconds, and then when he noticed the treat, he started his attack plan of ‘sniff to death’. After that, he picked up the treat in his mouth and carried it away. Ayzere sat down next to me. She poked the splint on my wrist. 

“How?” She asked. 

“Someone called me a gay little cunt, so I punched him,” I explained. She raised one eyebrow. It wasn't fair that everyone other than me could do that. Or, at least it seemed that way. 

“Why?” 

“My best friend is male, and we have managed to overcome the social boundary that says men can't be feminine or have the sorts of deep, long-lasting and healthy relationships that are considered completely normal for women and then homosexual for men. A boy said we were gay because of it,” I explained. I didn't like talking alone for that long. It made me feel weird, like there was a stabbing feeling in my stomach. 

“Why did you punch him?” She asked. Oh. If I was less afraid to speak, I would have explained that it was because of how tired I was of being called these stupid names. And yet at the same time, I was used to it. And then there was Misha. It set him off for people to call him a fag. He had explained to me on one occasion that he didn't think it was okay because of all the assumptions behind it, and because of the nature of the word. He would probably never come out of the closet if he actually was gay. At least, he would probably wait a very long time. I understood why. I wouldn't want to come out for a while if I was gay either. 

“Because he said something rude and mean,” I explained. 

“Was it the first time?” She asked. I shook my head. If you blinked, you would have missed the slight nod of her head. She grunted softly and stared straight ahead. I wondered what names lesbians got called. And aside from that, why did there need to be two terms meaning homosexual, and why did they need to be gendered? Couldn't there just be ‘gay’ for both men and women? As a gender neutral term, you know? Well, not entirely gender neutral. In my opinion, everything could stand to be a bit more gender neutral. Like how football is a man’s sport. Why can't it just be a sport? Or how figure skating is considered a woman’s sport. Athletes came in all shapes, sizes, genders, and sexualitites. And if I didn't happen to be straight, did anybody really need to give a fuck? 

“I guess it makes sense,” She mumbled. I hummed softly in response. 

Not much more time passed before I left without buying anything. 

“Are you ever going to give me business?” Ms. Polzin asked while I was walking out. I blushed, mumbled that someday I might, and ran all the way home. 


	10. 2010.3

For some reason or another, the injury to my wrist was seen as an impediment meaning that I could no longer skate. I didn't see why. I wasn't going to be touching the ice with that wrist on purpose, and I had one good wrist, so for the overly flamboyant parts, I could just use my left hand. All I knew was, I would be competing on the twenty sixth, whether Mama or Ms. Utkin or anybody who said that I couldn't liked it or not. I could do it. There wasn't another option. And I had to win this year more than before, because of those promises that I made to myself. I had promised, after all, that I would win and use the tiny amount of prize money that came with the title of the victor to help start my career. Maybe I was just crazy, but I wanted to skate in the Olympics and have my face on the screen of a television, or a laptop. I was probably crazy to think that I would be able to get there. 

I still practiced as much as I could. There were two triples in my routine this year and they had to be absolutely perfect for me to get anywhere. I had been competing with older boys for a few years now, and I had just barely been placing all those years. It wasn't easy for me to do anything about it though, because, even though it was supposed to, grace did not come naturally to me. I had to work really hard to accomplish anything, and even then, it felt like I had barely crossed the finish line. The gap between my score and the score of the person below me was always too small for my liking, and at times, remembering that made me feel even more worthless. A broken wrist wasn't going to stop me from competing and winning. 

I even decided not to go to ballet class the week of the competition. It was on the nearest Thursday. My first observation about the new, more constant skating practice was that it was weird to see Misha even less than I already did. I mean, I didn't see him very much anyway, and I probably wouldn't ever have the luxury to see him every day. Misha went to the second cheapest private school in the city. It would be completely absurd to even think of asking Mama to send us there. We would be poor if she sent three of her kids to private school as well as helping Serik pay off his college tuition and dealing with all of the other things that needed to be dealt with, like paying for the water and electricity and the house, which had seriously injured her wallet. Luckily, she didn't have to do very much for him, as he had refused to let her help him with any more than twenty five percent, but he had studied abroad at a relatively good college. The best educated men were never poor. Serik was far from the best educated, but I doubted that his college experience was even in the realm of cheap. 

Maybe if I got a lot of money from ice skating, I could help him out. Then again, there had been a time when he had given me a water bottle full of vodka and told me that I was cool enough to drink before I was legal. I had filled my mouth, but didn't swallow. In fact, the taste was so awful I wound up spitting my vodka out on the seat of his motorcycle. He didn't let me clean it up. But whatever. I wasn't thinking about how I had accidentally spewed vodka onto a motorcycle seat one time. I was wondering how the hell professional athletes got sponsors, and how they got advertisements. I figured, with some marketing research, I might have a clue as to what I was supposed to do. 

I asked Ms. Utkin about it, but she said that I was a kid and didn't have to worry about that yet. Bitch, I was turning twelve in October! I was gonna be old enough to enter the Junior competing bracket! Of fucking course I needed to worry about it! I would be packing my bags and travelling just over seven thousand kilometers North East-ish because of ice skating! Was I not allowed to worry about my future because I was only eleven? I mean, obviously, I didn't have any real world experience with anything, but if I was going to be going to Saint Petersburg, (Ms. Utkin had also suggested that I train in New York, but since Saint Petersburg was a lot cheaper and closer to home, that was what I had decided.) I would need to know the fundamentals of money making. Like, how other than winning competitions and advertisements would I go about getting money? I couldn't rely on my mother forever. 

“It’s like I’ve been told to prepare for a test but nobody will tell me what it’s on,” I said to Misha. It was Wednesday evening, and I really should have been going over the program, but he had insisted that I needed to relax and stop panicking so much over the competition. Which was why I was laying on his couch. I was feeling all antsy and like I should have been working instead of having a sleepover with him. 

“Like one of those nightmares,” Misha commented, somewhat mindlessly. He was fixated on playing a horrifically violent video game. My avatar had been shot within their first thirty seconds in game, and now I found that I was actually opening up a little bit to him. It was weird. I felt like I was vomiting words, and that if I stopped, it would be even worse than oversharing. I didn't know why I was like this. 

“Yeah. But basically, I need money to join the big leagues, and to get money, I need to be in the big leagues,” I said. Misha grunted noncommittally. 

“Sounds paradoxical.” 

“Yeah,” I nodded. I looked up at him. He had stuck out his tongue and started using that to move the joystick on his controller. I sighed and moved a bit further away from him so that I could start scissoring my legs. 

“FUCK!” Misha shouted when his avatar died, and threw his controller at the floor in front of him. “And I was so damn close, Otabek-” He had turned to face me. I kicked his shoulder. 

“I was watching; your score was rather impressive.” 

“Shut up,” He said, rubbing his shoulder. “And if you need the money, I could give it to you. As long as you’d pay me back.” 

“I don't want a favor.” He shrugged.

“You could call it a loan.” I shook my head. 

“I’m going to get the money myself.”

“How?” He asked. 

“Good question,” I responded. I actually hadn't put much thought into how I would get my hands on enough money for any sort of advertisement. “But if I were to buy an ad, then I would get some money back, so I would only really be losing what I didn't gain back, and I could be profitable if I paid for…say, a two thousand tenge ad and made over two thousand back. See, that’s the optimal situation-”

“Wait,” Misha said, and stuck a hand out to cover my mouth, “What if you and I were to sneak out after my parents fall asleep and get some money?” I stuck my tongue out to lick his fingers. He yanked his hand back as if I had set him on fire. 

“You’re disgusting.” 

“Are you proposing that we mug somebody?” I asked. His eyebrows pinched together for a moment. 

“What? No, of course not. I don't want to go to jail. And your wrist is broken. No, what I’m suggesting is we go to my dad’s tattoo parlour and take some money from there. It’s real frickin’ profitable. There’s probably, like, half a billion tenges in the cash register.” I raised my eyebrows and sat up. We were suddenly just short of nose to nose. Misha turned pink and backed away. Why had that happened? We had been closer. There had been a time when we went swimming in a tributary (although violently raging river is more like it) not far outside Almaty and he had nearly died while jumping and skipping around in a patch of violent current. Ironically enough, he had been doing it to prove to me that there was nothing dangerous about rivers. He fell down, banged the back of his head on a rock, and started to move downstream with the current of the water. I walked into the swiftly moving part of the river after him, and managed to catch up because I too sucked at walking in quickly moving water and had fallen. We wound up in a calmer portion of the river and sat on the bank for a little while. During that little while, Misha tackled me into a hug and thanked me for helping him out. He was heavier than I anticipated, and also didn't seem to care that he had hit his head on a rock. As long as I was okay, he said. That puzzled me. But whatever. The river doesn't really matter. What matters is how much was Misha’s dad charging to have half a billion tenges just laying around in a cash register?!

“That’s a lot of money. Are you sure your dad isn't a mob boss?” I asked. Misha leaned back a bit further. 

“Okay, maybe it’s an exaggeration,” He said. 

“Maybe?” I prompted. 

“Okay, more like half a million or something.” I shook my head at him. He was ridiculous. 

“We still can't steal from your dad,” I protested. 

“Fine! Fine, we won't steal,” He said, and crossed his arms, “From him.” I rolled my eyes. 

“You’re crazy. We can't steal any money. I’m not going to let you do something that’s my responsibility,” I said. He crossed his arms and slouched. 

“You’re no fun.” 

“So I’ve been told.” He started up the game again. I managed to last a little bit longer this time. I still wasn't trying very hard, though. Maybe on the fifteenth playthrough I could have learned more of the computer’s attack programs. Then again, Misha probably knew all of them. It was his game, after all. He wasn't half bad, either. He made it most of the way to the end of it before his character died again. I hadn't been talking that time, just watching him play. He started the game again and again. I managed to fall asleep on the couch before he was done. I was woken up at some point long deep in the night by Misha shaking me awake. 

“Hey Otabek, wake up,” He was whispering. I lifted one of my legs and pushed it back. I did not succeed in kicking him. If I could see him, I would know where to aim. But since I had refused to open my eyes, I just pushed my leg out into the air. It wasn't even that hard of a kick. 

“Fuck you, go to sleep,” I mumbled. He didn't listen. In fact, he kept shaking me. 

“Wake up!” He hissed. I opened my eyes and shifted into a sitting position. 

“What the hell do you want?” I asked. His living room was like a black and white photograph in the night, only with tiny touches of color here and there. His green eyes shone, and so did the largest of the curls in his hair. His skin was a very light gray, and his tie dyed tee shirt barely stood out anymore. I wished that he would never speak again, and just keep that slight flush to his cheeks, that tiny little smirk, and those tired eyes. You know, Misha was actually pretty handsome in the dark. Which makes me sound like I’m saying he looks best when you can't see him. That’s a lie. He looked nice right then, and maybe I was also factoring in the sounds of cars moving past and cicadas buzzing that could be heard through the open window, or the smells of citrus and sweat, but I was having one of those moments when you realize things. Misha was indeed an attractive boy. Fuck. 

“S-So, Otabek, I was thinking, you won't let me give you money, right? But what if, instead, I got you a good luck charm?” He asked. I was puzzled, and also startled. One does not often go from being in a dream about winning the world championships to realizing that a boy is actually very good looking to being offered a good luck charm by said boy at such an unholy hour of the night. 

“A good luck charm? What do you mean?” I rubbed at my eyes. They were tired and it sort of hurt to have them open. It was because they had been closed for so long and now that they were being exposed to the drier climate of Misha’s living room, they were having a minor melt down. 

“So, you know my dad’s tattoo parlour, and how they also do piercings? I was thinking, what if we snuck there tonight and I pierced your ears? O-Or I could give you a tattoo, or-” 

“Shut up, Misha. Of course I think that pierced ears would be cool, but at this time of night? I have a competition tomorrow-”

“Which is why you need to feel like you can win the damn thing. Ergo the good luck charm,” He explained, and stood up. He tugged me to my feet. “Come on, Otabek! It would give you confidence in yourself, and it would also be a great story to tell to your kids.” He started pulling me away from the couch and towards the front door. It felt like he was insinuating that I didn't feel like I could win the competition. I mean, I didn't, but that wasn't a good thing to think, so I tried to make my thoughts more positive by telling myself that while I lacked the skills to win, I certainly possessed the ability to make it seem like I did. Completely independent of that, a part of me thought it was a terrible idea to be going out this late at night, and what if we got in trouble, et cetera. The slightly louder part of me was saying that the only way to get noticed by anybody, be it a sponsor or somebody I had always wanted to talk to but never had, would be to go as off the rocker as possible. And what better way than to do that than change something about the way I looked? I thought that starting to wear makeup would be a better way to start going ‘nuts’ than getting a piercing, though. Then again, I didn't think it was as crazy as some people did to wear makeup. I didn't think that makeup should be reserved for a specific gender, especially considering that I had worn makeup and been just fine.

“What makes you think I’d even have kids?” I asked instead of saying what I was thinking. He shrugged. 

“Dunno.” He started to put his shoes on. 

“Misha, you’re crazy,” I said, refusing to put on my shoes. I looked down at him. He had the strange inability to put his shoes on while standing up. He always had to kneel down and never tied his shoes until the loose laces began to nearly physically disable him. Once, he and I had met up for ice cream after school (which I hated myself after) and decided to go for a walk. That had been a mistake, as we walked down a crowded sidewalk and he tripped so many times that he could have just become one massive scab. He lost his ice cream cone that way, too. I don't know why he doesn't just leave his shoes tied all the time. It would seem a lot easier than his current system. It was what I did. 

He stood up. 

“What, like you aren't?” He paused, and grabbed the doorknob. “Come on, let’s-” When he started to twist it, there was a noise coming from upstairs. 

“We should go back to the couch,” I hissed. I grabbed his hand and started to tug him back towards the living room.

“Not if we leave right now,” He responded. I rolled my eyes. 

“Hell no!” I pulled harder, and he stumbled in my direction. Those noises coming from upstairs were most definitely footsteps. It was probably hopeless to make an attempt at getting back to the couch. See, Misha’s house was pretty big, and we would have to silently but quickly traipse through three rooms to get back to the couch.

In the kitchen, there were two doors other than the front door. The first had a staircase behind it, and the second held a dining room. There were two doorways without doors in that room, and one of them led to a den. It was basically another living room. We had been in the other one, though, which had a softer feel to it. The walls were painted a pale yellow and the floor was white. The couch, placed in the center of the room, was shaped like a very rectangular U and it had a flannel pattern on it. It was light blue and red, with green highlights. The left branch of the couch was facing the television, and there were windows along the wall facing the back side of the couch. There was a desk facing that wall, with a chair in front of it. Atop the desk, there was a Mac desktop and keyboard, accompanied by several books and unfinished drawings. I thought that the couch was a bit uncomfortable. The fabric was kind of itchy. 

“My parents won't notice,” He mumbled, standing up. I touched his shoe with my foot. 

“Are you an idiot?!” I shouted, “Of fucking course somebody will notice if we, one, sneak out of your house in the dead of night, two, go to your dad’s place of employment, three, steal a bunch of money, and four, pierce our ears!” Misha looked taken aback, but recovered quickly. 

“My parents will also notice if you start yelling at me!” I was about to say something back when a door slammed open and the lights came on. I blinked several times, unused to the brightness. 

“Dimitri Nikitovich Antonov, what the hell are you doing?” It was his father. He looked mad. He had every right to be, given the things we had been saying. 

“We’re sorry, Mr. Antonov,” I said. Misha, or Dimitri, I guess, was standing there, sort of petrified. His eyes were wide and his lips were just slightly parted. Nearly every inch of his visible skin was flushed a bright pink. He looked afraid, although I didn't know what he was afraid of. He had a great relationship with his father. Well, better than the one that I had with mine anyway. When I was five years old, my father had pushed me down the stairs for no apparent reason. I had only been dancing. I had to get five stitches in my hairline, and the scar was still there. But I’m sure that Ravil and Serik have a lot more dirt on our dad than I do, seeing as I don't remember him like they must. He had left the winter before me and my siblings had spent the first summer with our grandparents. I wonder what kind of man he was underneath everything that was screwing with his mind. 

Don't get me wrong, he was a monster and a terrible human being, but that didn't mean he was only interested in flavors of beer and hurting his children. He could have had a favorite football team, a book series that he was obsessed with, an interesting life philosophy- the list goes on. But anyway, Misha and his dad were close. They were like friends, and had more inside jokes than the two of us did. I’m assuming, they seemed to make a lot of jokes around each other, ranging from the worst puns you might ever hear and sexual innuendos. Misha refused to explain them to me because I was ‘a pure child’. Fuck that, he was only two years older than me and knew that I could curse like a sailor. 

But whatever. I didn't see what had set him off and it scared me. It also made me wish that I knew him well enough to read him like I could read my family members. I mean, I wasn't fully fluent in the way other humans worked, but I liked to think that I could if I tried harder.

“Pardon my language, but what the hell are you two doing?” Misha’s father asked. His name, as you might have guessed, was Nikita. I didn't want to blame everything on Misha, but that was exactly what had happened, and it filled me with burning shame that we had been as stupid as we were. I stared at the ground, and let the humiliation gather in the back of my neck. It felt like I was butt naked and in front of everyone who had ever called me a fag. What made it worse was that neither of us spoke. We both just stood there, faces flushed to their full capacity, for what felt like ten minutes while Nikita stared us down. I felt like edging closer to Misha, so I did. My shoulder brushed against his bicep, and as soon as it did, he snatched my hand and squeezed it so hard I wondered if my fingers might snap off. And all of a sudden, I was blushing even more. 

“P-Papa…” Misha started, “I- Well, see- O-Otabek has a competition tomorrow, and I…I thought that I could get him a good luck charm.” His father narrowed his eyes. 

“Your plan was to go to the tattoo and piercing house, pierce your ears, and steal a bunch of money, right?” He asked. Misha squeezed my hand even tighter and nodded. I inhaled sharply, and edged closer to him. He nodded. 

“Y-Yeah,” He said softly. He was defeated. It was so weird to see him like this. He liked to pretend that nothing was wrong when something clearly was, and had wound up listening to me vent out my feelings. Although he always presented a solution to my problems when I bitched. Maybe I just wanted to bitch sometimes. 

“If you had told me about that idea when it wasn't two forty seven in the morning, I would have said yes and driven you there.” Misha nodded in response.

“I know, Papa.” His father sighed. 

“Go back to sleep, and don't steal. Stealing is bad.” With that, he turned around and went back upstairs. Misha was still blushing, and found it within the realm of possibility to squeeze my hand even tighter. I tried to pull my hand away, but he didn't let go.

“Dimitri,” I said quietly. I felt dumb for never bothering to consider that his name wasn't actually Misha. “Dimitri is a nice name. Why don't you go by Dimitri?”  He dropped my hand. 

“Don't call me Dimitri,” Misha said softly. He sounded a bit hurt. I was a little surprised. It was just a name, right?

“Why not?” I asked. He shrugged, “I’ll tell you in a minute.” We walked back to the living room. I collapsed on the couch and burrowed back into the corner that I had been in before. Misha laid down and stretched his legs up in the air, switching periodically between pointing his toes and flexing his feet. 

“You okay?” I asked. He nodded. 

“Yeah, I just really hate my name. It feels-” He waved his hand around in the air for a few moments, and then stopped. He brought his feet down and came forward to sit on his knees. 

“Okay, can I tell you something?” He asked really important, and I’ve never told it to anybody before. You have to swear that you’ll never tell anybody, ever.” I sat up too. I was curious now. 

“You can trust me,” I said, “What else would friends be for?” I wondered what he was going to tell me. I was probably imagining things that were more grandiose than reality, but that’s just how I get when I’m curious. Was he going to tell me that his father actually was a mob boss, or that his hair wasn't naturally red, or something else entirely?

“So. Otabek. I, uh, I guess you could say that I don't really fit into what people call normal,” He said. He paused again, and held out his hand. I took it and squeezed. My heart was beating way too fast, but I didn't care. I needed to know. 

“You can call me crazy if you want to, which I guess you already did. Heh. But, it’s just…this…fuck,” He ran his other hand through his hair. I walked forward on my knees and put my arms around his shoulders. He froze for a second, and his breath hitched. He hugged me back. He was really warm. I wasn't sure if it was because of his blushing or if it was his natural body temperature. I think it was the former. 

After a few minutes of hugging, he moved his hands from my waist and pushed me away slightly. 

“This is really hard to say,” He chuckled softly. 

“It’s okay if you decide you don't want to tell me,” I said. He nodded sadly, and then looked up so that he could stare into my eyes. 

“No, I definitely do. It’s just hard. I…I don't like the name Dimitri because it makes me feel too much like a boy. I like to be called Misha because it sounds more gender neutral to me than Dimitri. See…I don't think I am a boy, even though I was born like this, but I’m not a girl either. Does that make any sense? It…everything sucks, and I’m such a freak-” I put my hand on top of his.

“I still love you,” I said softly. Misha’s eyes had started to tear up a little bit. They sure were red, because the last thing he needed was to have another red body part. Now, if only his irises would turn red…

“Y-You don't care?” He gasped, smiling gently. 

“Why would I? You’re still Misha.” He shrugged, and looked away. He lifted one hand to clutch at his opposite bicep. 

“I don't know. I guess I was just afraid that you wouldn't want to hang out with me anymore, or, I don't know-” 

“The only thing you need to be afraid of right now is sleep deprivation,” I told him. I was proud, and wanted to tell them that sometimes, I felt the same way. I laid back down. Misha started crying. 

“You’re the best, Otabek,” He said softly, and laid back down on the couch. I smiled softly at him. I wished I could be as brave as he was. Dimitri Antonov, Dimitriya Antonova. Dimitri sounded pretty masculine to me too, I guess. It sounded like the name of a big lumberjack with huge arms and calloused hands. The image of that Dimitri scared me. He would probably saw me in half and throw me in a fireplace. 

“Sleep,” I warned. Misha smiled, and reached out to rest their left foot on my calf. I shifted around, trying to get their foot off of my calf, but gave up after a few minutes. I was wearing pants anyway. They had judged me for wearing pants instead of shorts in August, but I had seen them walk out into the snow wearing a tee shirt and jeans, and then proceed to play with that snow for hours before going inside to put on a coat. Besides, my pants weren't even pants. They were leggings. 

It wasn't much longer before I fell asleep. In the morning, I asked Misha if they wanted me to stop referring to them as a boy. They shrugged. 

“I don't know. It’s weird and confusing and I don't understand gender.” He had been laying on his stomach with his arms crossed in front of his face, and his head resting on his arms. He plopped his forehead down so he was laying face down on the couch. I hummed softly in response. I felt selfish for thinking that he looked kind of cute like that. He was probably freaking out inside and here I was thinking about the way he looked. 

“Well, as far as we know, nothing has any purpose, so gender doesn't matter,” I said. 

“That’s quite nihilistic of you,” Misha commented. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and stared at me. His shoulders were at his ears. Maybe they could be his earrings. Now that I thought about it, earrings didn't seem like they would be the best choice for an athlete. They could get snagged on a costume or something and tear my ear. Of course, I could always put a piece of metal through something else. Like my eyebrow, or I could get snake bites. No, then nobody would want to kiss me. Not that I was super preoccupied with wanting to kiss people, I wasn't. I was just thinking about it. Ravil had a girlfriend, Serik had a girlfriend, so maybe I was supposed to have one too. I mean, there were girls that I would like to kiss, like a girl who I went to school with. Her name was Fruiza. She was much taller than me and didn't have very many friends. At least, to my knowledge. She was smart, had the biggest eyes I had ever seen, and was a damn good singer. I really liked her voice. While the rest of the people at school were struggling to hit every note, the only ones she had trouble with were insanely high. Then again, it’s not as if all we did in the fifth grade was sing songs. That mostly happened at lunch. But there was something else that scared me. It was this recent development, this revelation, this realization that Misha was attractive, both in looks and in personality, that scared me shitless. Maybe something was wrong with me. 

“I guess,” I said softly, and was suddenly overcome by a wave of  _ holy shit, the competition is today _ . I really shouldn't have spent the night at Misha’s house. I should have been practicing. What if I forgot something in the middle? What if everything went wrong? What if the CD that was supposed to play was somehow warped or scratched or someone had swapped my Mozart CD with one that featured someone rapping about sex? I was basically panicking over nothing right now, and while everything would most likely go soothly, I couldn't help but be afraid that something I couldn't be blamed for would get screwed up. I could be blamed for missing a step or failing to land a jump or going left instead of right, but matters would be out of my control if the music got messed up or the blades on my skates had magically dulled themselves overnight. 

Basically, I was beyond logic and thinking of every single way that the performance could get messed up. Even ‘what if the ice isn't cold enough’ had crossed my mind, although that was the point at which I told myself to calm down. Of course the ice would be cold enough. Right? 

“Hey, Misha?” I asked, “Do you think that you can come to my skating competition today?” He nodded. 

“Sure. When is it, and where?” 

“It’s at the Almaty Arena, and it starts at one o’clock,” I told him. He nodded. 

“Just let me ask my parents.” When he did ask, his mother said no and his father said yes. She had said no because of what he had tried to do in the middle of the night and he had said yes because why not? The kid was a kid and if he wanted to support his friend then there was no reason for him not to go. 

At eight in the morning, my mom came to pick me up. I gave Misha a big hug before running to her car and getting into the front seat. 

“Sit in the back, Beka,” She said wearily. I didn't move. Ravil had sat in the front seat when he was eleven. During the drive home, all I could think about was my performance. I was beyond sane worrying. I worried the whole damn day. I could barely eat the small salad in front of me at lunch. I felt like I had fallen into a bubble of nervousness and broken through the other side, which was just complete apathy and darkness. I stretched until I was convinced that my hamstrings were the loosest they had ever been, and that I could comfortably be packed into a suitcase. Only I wasn't satisfied. I did push ups and sit ups, and held my hands out at my sides for about ten minutes. I grapevined instead of walking, and only did it backwards. At one point, I switched over to jazz squares. Of course, Ravil thought that it was high time to start talking to me. 

“What the hell is that?” He asked when I started the jazz squares, laughter on his voice.

“Jazz squares,” I said softly. My toes hurt from hitting the ground so hard, and so many times. I was nervous enough to defy the laws of callouses.

“It just looks like a gayer and more elaborate circle,” He said, and pushed his bangs out of his eyes. They fell right back to where they had been previously. He really needed a haircut. 

“Thanks,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm, “Top notch compliments, buddo.” He clicked his tongue. 

“Any time.” He went back to playing with his Rubik’s cube. Don't tell Nuroski, but Ravil was actually kind of cool, if you could get past his raging homophobia. 

“Besides, what are you so afraid of? It’s just a dancing competition, and one of the gays will have to out-gay all the other gays. Of course, it won't be you, since you’re not that gay. You seem to want to be gay for whatever reason, though.”

“I do not want to be gay!” I shouted, and left the room. Before you could count to five, it was time to leave. I packed up my costume and my skates, and we were off to the rink. It felt surreal to walk into the arena (even though it wasn't my first time) and met up with Ms. Utkin. I wondered if this was what it would feel like to be a professional skater: Walking into different rink in a different city every other week and meeting up with my coach to discuss the next few hours in immense detail. After finding Ms. Utkin, I went straight to the locker room to change into my costume. I had made it myself. It was comprised of a dark blue leotard with black sequins sewn onto the shoulders, black leggings with swirling designs drawn on with a silver paint Sharpie, and a skirt of sorts. It was made of a piece of elastic with transparent fabric stapled to the inside. I was happy that nothing fell off while I was changing. Usually, at least a few sequins decided that they would no longer like to participate in making my shoulders look sparkly. 

While I was changing, I stood in the corner, facing away from everybody else who was in the locker room, even though it was only about three people. How were they all so comfortable with standing next to each other and taking their clothes off? I changed quickly, and when I turned around to leave, there were some boys who hadn't even finished taking off their street clothes yet. I wondered how in the hell that was even possible. But hey, at least I didn't leave any sequins behind in the locker room. 

When I found Ms. Utkin again, she was waiting next to one of the screens that was provided so that the other skaters could watch their competition. She said that it was time for me to put on my makeup. I never liked putting on makeup all that much, although I liked wearing it, so that had me a little bit excited. With her makeup backpack slung over one shoulder, she lead me to another room. The lights in here cast a white light over everything. They were very stark and industrial. There was a table in the center, surrounded by folding chairs. There was a television on mounted on the wall. It was off at the moment but I’d be willing to bet money that this was where competitors who had yet to perform watched what was happening on the rink. 

“Pick a seat,” She said, and set the bag down on the table. She began unpacking everything. I groaned inwardly. It baffled me how there was so much stuff that went into making a person’s face only look slightly different. I sat down, and watched while she continued to unpack the bag. There were at least ten palates of skin colored makeup, and five of colored ones. At least I knew that my eyeshadow would either be wearing a warm shade of orange or solid black. After the boxes of powder came the eyebrow pencils and mascaras and eyeliners. She only had liquid eyeliner, although I’ve definitely had a pencil dangerously close to my cornea in the past. The last things she took out of the bag were the concealer, setting spray, hair spray, hair gel, primer, lip glosses, bobby pins, and brushes. So many brushes. Have I mentioned that I hate putting on makeup? Because I really do hate being prodded and poked and having my cheeks squeezed. 

Finally, Ms. Utkin sat down across from me. She sighed softly while organizing everything. Makeup was a serious business. 

“Close your eyes,” She instructed, and then “Actually, open them. We’re going to deal with your hair first. I’m going to gel it and pin it down this time.” 

“Why?” I don't think I’ve ever put gel my hair before. 

“After your lessons, your hair gets really puffy and you always have to push it out of your face. Plus, it gets so sweaty that whenever your head touches something, you get sweat on it, and frankly, it’s disgusting.” She was right; I often wound up with sweat dripping from my ears and hair, and it was disgusting. She pulled a large tub of gel out of the bag and opened it. She dipped two fingers from her right hand into the container and then brought them to brush my bangs to the sides. I didn't like the way it felt, but it was bearable. After she finished pushing my hair away from my forehead, She put the gel down and started to pin the hair on the back of my head down. 

Once that was done, she started to dab at the few pimples I did have with concealer. 

“Alright, give me your arm,” She said after finishing. I groaned. She was going to put a bunch of foundation on my arm until she found one that matched my skin tone. I didn't like her methods of finding an olive-ish colored foundation. Once she found one that seemed to match, she took that color and spread it all over my face and neck. She added a very slight blush to my cheekbones. She didn't think I needed much eyeliner due to the fact that my eyelashes were already thick and dark, but I liked wearing it so she carefully outlined them with black liquid liner, and even added wings to the outside. I think that eyeliner was the worst part of putting on makeup, because of how hard it was to keep my eyes still while they were being poked at. My eyes were finished, and next up was my mouth. 

“Open your mouth, but just slightly,” She told me. I let my bottom lip drop, and she applied some light pink lip gloss. The final few steps in getting ready were adding black eyeshadow and bronzer. After she finished, she told me to close my eyes so that she could spritz me with setting spray. I hated the way it smelled. After she sprayed me, I told her I was going to the bathroom. It was mostly because I had to pee really bad, but also kind of because I wanted to see what I looked like. 

As it turned out, I had been given a very unappealing center part. Other than that, I looked fine. I used the urinal, then washed my hands, and left. That was when my insecurities came back to bite me in the ass. What if I forgot what I was supposed to do, or the wrong song started playing? The sequins of my costume were making my skin itch and the miniscule skirt was swishing uncomfortably against the tops of my thighs. There was foundation in my hairline. Ms. Utkin had decided that while my face wasn't allowed to shine in the spotlights, my hair sure as hell was. It felt like I was wearing a helmet. When I shook my head back and forth, my hair didn't move at all. I hated that feeling. Oh well. At least I no longer had to pee. 

Right now, Ms. Utkin and I were back in the room where she had done my makeup. Now was the time that we would go over every aspect of the program. I could remember all of it, but what if my memory wore off when I touched the ice? My hands were shaking and sweating like hogs as we reviewed the steps in the routine, and I couldn't help but sneak glances at my competition. They were all taller than I was, although that was commonplace, and they all looked stronger than I did. I sucked my stomach in, even though there was nothing to suck in.

As time progressed, my mind slipped away from the program. Whenever I closed my eyes, I could see myself executing every movement. I started to pat the side of my leg to the music, which was blasting inside of my head. Maybe, just maybe, I could see myself winning this thing. Shit, I needed to find some wood to knock on. And before I could blink, the first name was being called. I thanked every God I could name that I didn't wind up in the first place spot. It was a boy named Malkhaz Avci. I watched his performance on the screen. He moved with a crisp celerity and had a natural affinity for spinning. When he jumped, he jumped high. He didn't have many difficult jumps, but he had a lot of them. I suppose I understood that strategy. With a low risk comes low reward, so just monopolize on low-risk situations and you’ll soon find yourself with a fuck ton of rewards. 

I wasn't doing that exactly, but maybe I should take notes. It wasn't as if I would be using them soon, seeing as I had also recently had a bomb dropped on my head. See, I was going to Russia, that part was finalized, but there was this boarding school for young athletes that I had to try out for. The bomb was that I had to try out and that their acceptance rate was five percent. See, just because I was eleven years old didn't mean that I didn't need to know these things. I would gladly recite from a drilling manual if it meant that I could become good at figure skating. 

I was scheduled to skate third, which put the feeling of dread back in my stomach as soon as Malkhaz finished his performance. Even though Ms. Utkin and I hadn't been sitting in the room where we had done the makeup for long, it was time to leave, which was probably for the better. It was hot and stuffy and I was sweating both from nerve and because the only good adjectives I can use to describe the air in the dressing room are dry, still, and silent. Not that it was silent, no, the television screen was playing audio as well as visual. It was a quality of the air, which felt thick and heavy. It was a nice type of air to die in, or maybe it was the type of air that people were murdered in. I rapped my knuckles on the door before leaving for good luck. 

If I told you I could focus my mind as I walked out from under the bleachers, I would be lying. The inside of my head was almost as loud as what was outside. It was like the exact opposite of being bored, and more like a sensory overload, both from my physical body and from my mind. It was awful. Ms. Utking gave me a last minute pep talk at the gate to the rink, and I didn't remember most of it. I couldn't focus enough to listen for most of it. All I heard was ‘leave it all on the ice’. And so I did. I skated out to what I figured was the center of the rink. It would have been easier to figure out the center if I had been at the rink where I practiced. There were lines under the ice meant for hockey games. Here, there was nothing under the ice, except more ice and eventually a floor of some sort. I took a deep breath, cracked my knuckles, and waited for Requiem in D Minor to begin.

I moved in time with the slow beginning of the song. It was so quiet I almost couldn't hear it at first, although that was okay. It didn't stay quiet for long. I had feared that I wouldn't be able to remember when to jump, but as soon as I heard the violin, I remembered that that was how I was supposed to align myself. Everything else was a distraction. 

I was only using the first two minutes of the song, and while I loved the rest of the track and would gladly skate to it, I would probably wind up dead on the floor if I tried to do that. The piece wasn't exactly short. I decided in the moment that I would make the final jump- a double salchow- into a triple. I can't recall ever pulling one off perfectly before, but all that was on my mind was skating and skating well. I was going to take a risk, damn it, and if it didn't go too well, it was my own fault for biting off more than I could chew. I pushed off of the ground, and spun through the air. I landed on the inside of the blade and fell. My injured wrist hit the rink first, with a resounding crack that, to anyone else, would have sounded like it was just part of the music. I can't tell you how much it hurt. I could sit here all day and fail to describe exactly how my bone felt like it was shattering over and over as I pushed off the ice. I felt tears stinging in the backs of my eyes, and almost didn't manage to push myself back up. I switched every motion that had been done with the right side of my body to the left, and wound up posing with the final crescendo much closer to the wall than I was supposed to. In the brief moment of silence where everything was over and I was just holding the pose before the audience clapped, I was sobbing at the pain in my wrist and the horrible guilt that had settled into the back of my throat. I felt like throwing up. 

I left the rink clutching my now slightly deformed wrist to my chest with tears rolling down my cheeks. My whole body was alight with embarrassment. I had just changed my program, furthered an injury on it’s path away from healing, and didn't do a very good job at much of anything in front of hundreds of people. I brought my other hand to my face, and wiped my cheeks, although all I actually did was smear around the tears. I looked around for Ms. Utkin, but the first person to come up to me was actually Aliya. It was totally unexpected, and I had no idea how she even got down here so fast. She rammed into my right shoulder, and wrapped me up into a hug. 

“You were so cool, Beka! Even though you fell down, you were still was super awesome! A-And you used your birthday present!” She shouted excitedly. It was true, she had been the one to give me my Mozart CD. We moved aside as the next skater took the ice.

“T-Thanks, Aliya,” I said softly, “But I wasn't really that good.” She was about to speak again when Ms. Utkin approached the two of us. Her eyes were wide and she looked slightly frazzled and afraid.

“Are you okay, Otabek?” She demanded. Her annunciation was perfect. I shook my head, a bit tearful. I hated crying so much. It made me feel like the sickly, pale skinned, doe eyed protagonist of a fairy tale, the kind who let the story happen around them and had no real impact on the plot. I made a move to hold up my injured wrist, but the horrible pinching feeling of my bones touching where they shouldn't have been made it impossible. I winced, and squeaked in pain. 

“I think it’s even more broken,” I told her. She rushed me over to learn my score, which was higher than I’d thought it would be, and then lead Aliya and I back to the area under the bleachers. She found one of the rink employees and asked if there was a nurse on site. There was, and we were given instructions on how to find her. After we found her, I had to give a detailed description of my wrist and all that was faulty at the moment. 

She unwrapped my wrist from it’s splint, which caused it to hurt even more. My skin was red around the wrist and sagged a little more than usual. I was diagnosed, once more, with a broken wrist and told that I would have to get a proper cast this time, the kind that stays on for six weeks. It went all the way to my elbow. Not only would a cast render me incapable of writing just before the start of the school year, but I wouldn't be allowed to skate. I probably also wouldn't be allowed to skate. It felt like a death sentence. I was crying now because I was afraid that I had missed my chance to be amazing later on in life. This was crucial time to be practicing so that I could do everything perfectly when I grew up. So what if it was a far fetched goal?

Aliya wrapped her arms around my waist, and leaned her head on my shoulder. 

“You’re gonna be okay, Beka,” She said seriously, as if saying it like that was affirming that nothing would go wrong. I shook my head. 

“B-But I’m not,” I said softly. I hated crying. The nurse, a tall, brown haired woman, recommended that I go to the hospital, and that I put my splint back on until that was possible. I also hated the hospital. Alas, I still had to attend the awards ceremony, although I was fairly certain that I wouldn't be receiving anything. That had been a misconception, as I had walked out of the arena accompanied by Mama, Aliya, Misha, Ms. Utkin, and a silver medal around my neck. And I had actually thought I was going to get gold this year. I felt like I had to keep my eyes open now, seeing as there were dried tears clinging to my cheeks and eyes. Misha asked if Mama could take our picture in front of a bronze statue of an impossibly thin woman on skates outside the arena. We took the photo. I didn't smile, and soon I was at the hospital again, getting a plaster cast affixed to my wrist and arm. I detested the damn thing. I wasn't allowed to skate with it on, I wasn't allowed to dance with it on, I wasn't even allowed to bring it into the shower so that I could bathe without putting a plastic bag over the cast. I couldn't write anymore either. But in my opinion, the worst thing was that I could no longer prepare for my tryout for that Russian boarding school. 

After I made it home, I threw up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to you who reads these words. So, it's been a while, but now I can say that I have a tumblr that you can check out (https://paraduxkys.tumblr.com/). I'm now on summer break, so I'll definitely be writing and drawing more. Of course, I also like to skate in my free time, so I'll be doing that as well, but since I won't be at school, there's more time in the day to do fun things. Until next time!


	11. 2011

2011

 

As it turns out, completely decimating my wrist hadn't been as awful of a thing as I had thought. I got to keep the cast pieces when they were taken off, and I also got to keep a copy of my x-ray. My mother had kept a photo of me pointing to and proudly naming my own shattered lunate through hamate, as well as the small lightning bolt shaped crack in my ulna. After that, I decided that I would learn more about the basic anatomy of a human. I used Mama’s computer to look up the names of each bone in the body and wound up on a webpage that was written in the English alphabet. I tried to make sense of the letters, and remembered what a few of the symbols meant, but eventually gave up in favor translating the page into Russian.

And even though it felt like it, two months was not eternity. There were still bigger fish to fry, like organizing where exactly I would go once I got to Russia. Mama and I had been looking into the idea of host families, and we had started sending emails with this one elderly couple just after I got my passport. Now, nine months later, I was going to be getting on a plane late tomorrow night and meeting Mr. and Mrs. Markovich for the first time. Or, at least, face to face for the first time. I had talked to them over Skype during the winter. Anyway, my mom thought that something I would absolutely love would be if she decided to invite everybody who had attended figure skating classes with me,  Misha, and my grandparents to our house during the second week of June for the sake of having a goodbye party. I didn't think it was necessary, and frankly, it was way too much for me.

I talked with Leyla about what it was like to compete and travel internationally- She had competed in the Junior Grand Prix Final and World Championships last year, but not the junior Olympics. She placed fifth and sixth, respectively. She told me that she wanted to start seeing Kazakhstan’s flag on the list of winning countries, and hugged me before wandering off to talk to somebody else. I was dying inside. I didn't even like most of the people here. They were all boring and had the same dumb things to say. Which, of course, is why nobody noticed when Misha and I went upstairs to my bedroom, where I dove onto the twin bed on my side of the room. Misha kept standing.

“Wow,” He said, “You’re actually leaving.”

“Ever the genius, you are,” I responded, somewhat snide. He rolled his eyes.

“Shut up. I meant, your bedroom looks like you’re leaving. Well, your half of it, anyway.” I raised one eyebrow. It had taken me hours to learn how to do that.

“You used to have a poster of Viktor Nikiforov on that wall. You used to have a necklace- Remember, it was the one with the fake money- over your lampshade, and there were your medals- It feels like you’re leaving forever and you’re not coming back.” He finished with a sigh, and sat on the edge of my bed. He must not have noticed that there was still a photograph of the two of us taped to the wall next to my bed.

“I’m going to miss you when you’re in Russia,” He said softly. I forced myself to smile up at him.

“I’m going to miss you when I’m in Russia,” I echoed. Misha smiled, and opened his mouth to talk, but I interrupted him before he could start.

“And besides, it’s not like we’re not going to talk to each other. I’m going to have a cell phone, so that I can talk to my mom and my grandparents and my host family, and then I’ll come home and it’ll be like nothing ever happened. Besides, we were never going to go to the same school or anything. You’ll hardly even notice that I’m gone.”

“But what if I do?”

“Make other friends.” Misha rolled his eyes.I turned my head away and looked down at the hairs on my arm. They were more brown than usual. I wondered when that had happened. I turned my arm so that I was looking at the inside of my forearm. It was paler than the outside, and the hairs were lighter. I rolled onto my stomach.

“I already have other friends,” He said, and leaned back. He was on top of my feet now. I pulled them out from under his shoulders and kicked him gently in the arm.

“Good for you,” I responded. He didn't say anything for a while, just sort of stared off into the distance. Or rather, stared at Ravil’s side of the room. That side of the room was a mess, and was dictated by a piece of black electrical tape. He would throw a hissy fit if I walked over the line, or if something of mine crossed it, even if it was to give something of his back. I didn't like it when one of his sweaty knee-high socks wound up on my side of the room, which was why I tended to keep my bloodstained and sweat soaked socks where they belonged, thank you very much.

After awhile, I got bored of the silence. Call me crazy, but I wasn't entirely a fan, for once in my life. I didn't like the occasional ringing in my ears. I reached over to my nightstand, and turned on my metronome. Misha jumped slightly at the sound of the ticking, but before much time had elapsed, we had both started breathing to the rhythm it created.

“And that’s how you tell a dancer from somebody else- we breathe to the beat,” Misha said quietly. It was my turn to jump. His voice surprised me, and it felt like somebody had dumped a bucket of ice water down the back of my shirt while I was in a sauna. I blushed, and adjusted my position slightly. I grunted in response, and turned on my side,

“But I’m not a dancer.”

“Close enough.” Misha was quiet until he had something else to say. Although I suppose that’s how everybody is quiet.

“Otabek?” He asked. His voice was soft.

“Present and accounted for.” I sounded way too sarcastic. I didn't like the way my voice sounded, but at least it hadn't cracked.  

“What’re you gonna do in Russia?” I rolled my eyes. That was a dumb question, although I guess it made sense. I hadn't told him yet, which was quite strange. He knew everything about me, and I knew everything about him. Well, that’s a stretch. He didn't know what a freak of nature I was, and he definitely had some secrets that he was hiding from me. Nobody ever truly knows anyone, in my opinion, because nobody can interpret things in the exact same way as someone else unless they have the exact same particle makeup. Essentially, only your clone could truly know you, and since cloning remains impossible at the moment, everyone remains sequestered inside of their own minds.

“I’m  going to live with a family- Well, sort of a family. There’s this couple that’s going to let me live in their house with the hopes that we become close friends. And I’m going to go to school in the winters, and train all year round. I’ll take a dance class or two, and I’ll-” Misha sat up. I stopped talking, even though I wasn't done yet. I needed to tell him about the guy who would be a coach of sorts. I forgot to worry about that, though, when Misha leaned closer to me until we were breathing the same air. It sent my heart beat off on a marathon and then made me start to wonder how long we could continue breathing if we were locked in a room together. Also, you know, what it was that he wanted.

Misha opened his mouth as if he was about to speak, but then his stomach gurgled and broke the silence. He giggled softly.

“Guess I should’ve eaten,” He said.

“My mom made bauyrsak,” I said. His face lit up. Misha did love his carbohydrates. I had no memory of when exactly that bauyrsak had come to be, but it existed. Unless someone had gone and eaten it all, of course. I didn't think it was likely. We went downstairs, and we did indeed find that there was bauyrsak to be eaten. Misha and I just sort of milled around, eating bauyrsak, walking from room to room and talking to each other, as we typically did, until it was time for him to go. Before he left, he hugged me goodbye. I really was going to miss him. When he pulled away, he smiled at me for a moment before bending his knees enough that we could make eye contact without me having to look up.

“Bye, Otabek,” He said softly. He leaned forwards, and up a little bit. His lips touched my forehead, and he left them there for a moment before making a smacking sound with his mouth and pulling away. I swear my heart stopped when he touched me. He sent an electric shock through my body, and left me speechless as he ran out of my house and to his mother’s car outside. I touched my forehead. What exactly had just happened? I mean, I _know_ what just happened, Misha kissed me on the forehead. But why had he done that? Did he like me in a romantic way? He was probably misguided and confused. I was just…just me. There was nothing interesting about me, except that I was training to be a figure skater, and that was just a thing I did! I was unfriendly and had a sour personality, and I didn't smile enough. I was boring. Why would a person like Misha like somebody like me?

“B-Bye!” I shouted, somewhat breathlessly, as he ran away from my house. When he got to the car, he turned around and waved for a few seconds before getting in. I turned away from the doorway, blushing so much I might’ve just stayed red forever. Misha had been the last person to leave the party, which didn't even need to happen, mind you, so I just bolted back to my room after he left. I laid down on my bed and smushed my face into my pillow. The metronome was still ticking. I pushed myself up onto my elbows so that I could turn it off. The silence rang for a little while, until Ravil barged into our bedroom, turned on the overhead light, stripped to his underwear, and crashed on his bed.

“Hey, Beka,” He said in greeting. I swallowed, and made eye contact with him. This would be an interesting conversation, as my mind was just screaming Misha’s name over and over and over. Damn him for making me feel this way.

“R-Ravil,” I said, cringing at the way my voice sounded. It had sounded somewhat whiny to begin with but then, of course, it had to crack. Misha.

“What’s up with you? You look like you’ve been hit by a truck.”

“H-Have you ever been kissed?” I slapped my hand over my mouth almost as soon as I said it. Why was I allowed to speak freely when I said stupid stuff like that? Anyway, that was doubly stupid because now he was going to ask who I’d kissed, but I hadn't kissed anyone, at least not on the lips, and it had been Misha, who was born male, kissing me, someone else who was born male! What the fuck was wrong with me? I swore right there and then that nobody would ever know about the incident except for Misha and I. It would be better off that way. Nobody would think I was gay, nor would they be disappointed to learn that I might’ve been a little gay. Although not that much, I swear. I just happened to think that Misha was very kind and cute. There, I said the word cute. I fucking hate that word with a burning passion. But anyway.

So what if Misha was attractive? And so what if he maybe thought the same of me (even though his priorities were all messed up if he thought I had any redeeming aspects to my personality.)? It didn't matter, right? No, it didn't. It couldn't matter. I was still me, even if I was a mess.

Ravil wiggled his eyebrows.

“Ooh, who’s the lucky lady?” He stayed quiet for a little while, and we held a brief unscheduled staring contest. “Or, um,” He lowered his voice, “Lucky boy?” I tried my hardest not to react, but wound up flushed a very deep crimson. How the _hell_ did he figure that out?! Was he a fucking psychic or something?! Did I have a look on my face that read ‘A guy just kissed me’ or something? Was it because I was blushing so much? Okay, no, I just needed to calm down. It wasn't because he knew, he was just going to make fun of me or something like that. I took a deep breath.

“Yeah, right, it was a girl from school,” I lied. There hadn't even been anybody from school here, except Aliya. But that was because she was my sister, so she didn't really count.

“Who?” Ravil asked.

“Fruiza Iyer,” I said. That wasn't even her last name. It was actually Uzun. It didn't matter, though. Ravil didn't know who she was anyway.

“Nice,” He said, and held up his hand. I slapped it, and only felt slightly guilty.

“So? Have you ever kissed anyone?” He rolled his eyes.

“Duh,” He said. I squinted in confusion and tilted my head to the side. Who would’ve kissed my brother? Knowing him, he would have come home with a musical written about how he had kissed a girl and was now a man superior to all the rest, despite being sixteen at the oldest. He thrust out his bottom lip. “Dami, obviously.” Right, Dami. I had forgotten about her existence.

“Are you still dating her?” I asked. He nodded, flushing slightly.

“Do you like Fruiza?” He asked. I nodded. That part wasn't a lie. The problem laid with Misha. I had started thinking…maybe I’d like to kiss him for real. An actual, proper, lips-on-lips kiss.

“Hmm. If you stop being gay and win the Olympics, she might notice you!” He chuckled. I jumped off my bed, crossed the line of electrical tape, and tackled him.

“Shut up, you dick!” I shouted, “I’m not gay!” I punched his chest at the end for good measure. I knew from the start that it wasn't a good idea to try and fight Ravil, but I didn't care. He was calling me gay, which wasn't entirely a foreign concept, but at the moment I was barely able to make it seem like I wasn't panicking over Misha and the way he had set my forehead on fire. I felt like my forehead was still on fire, but that was because now I was very embarrassed.

Ravil sat up, and pushed his forearm into my stomach, hard. It knocked me back a bit and pushed the air out of my lungs. I got on my knees again, and something inside me was egging me on, and telling me that I had to fight him. I didn't want to punch him, though, even though I had learned the correct way to punch somebody since breaking my wrist. I shifted towards him, and started to pull my arm back. He grabbed a hair tie from his wrist and reached back behind his head so that he could put his hair up into a ponytail. He hadn't cut it in years.

I made a fist and started to throw the punch, but Ravil leaned back and stuck his foot out so that he could kick me in the sternum. I fell back, and he tied off his ponytail.

“Get back on your own side of the room,” He said, and pulled back the covers of his bed. I groaned and climbed back into my own bed.

“I hate you,” I said, and got up to turn off the overhead light. I went back to my bed and peeled the covers away so that I could burrow underneath them. I liked that I was too short to fill up all of the space in my twin bed. Then again, I doubted that there were many people who could fill up an entire bed with their bodies. I pulled all the blankets up so that I was surrounded by warmth and the semi-softness of the fabric.

In the morning, I had to finish packing. There was nothing else to pack, I thought, except for my skates, my winter jacket, and some books. I would be taking the skates in their own bag, though. This bag was shaped like a skate, too. Finally, I had a bag that could successfully accommodate my skates. The rest of the day was filled with lounging about and panicking over last minute things. I spent a lot of my time before it was time to go to the airport watching this television show that I liked and stretching. At about four thirty, post-meridian, Mama and I called Mr. and Mrs. Markovich on Skype for the last time before I would meet them in person. My heart was thudding in my chest, I was so nervous. I had never even left Almaty for more than a couple of days, and I had never been to an airport. I spoke some Russian, and read better than I spoke, but what if I messed every conjugation up, like I sometimes did in school? I wasn't the best student, and I’ve had to ask the teacher for help a lot more than my classmates, which was kind of embarrassing.

After dinner, Mama helped me look through my suitcase to see if I had packed all of my clothes. I had, even the ones that I hated. Specifically a pair of jeans that flared out at the ankles. The flares were tie dyed. I had an impressive collection of hoodies in my suitcase, seven to be exact, and an even more impressive amount of socks. My mom had bought me some new wool socks along with my cell phone, because Russia is a cold place and ice is cold and blah blah blah your feet need to be kept warm or you won't be a functional human being anymore. Or something like that. I also had clothes for winter, which struck me as being odd, seeing as it was June and I lived in a place that was susceptible to warm weather, but seeing as the majority of Russia was in permafrost, it was the smart thing to do to pack winter clothing.

I had wound up with two suitcases, which annoyed the hell out of me. Usually, I could fit enough clothes to last me the summer into my suitcase when I had spent the summers at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. Of course, I was probably going to be staying in Russia for more than just three months. Hence my mom buying me a bunch of new clothes, hence the second suitcase. Whatever. There were still last minute things to pack, like my phone and it’s charger, my toothbrush, deodorant, et cetera. I had also decided that I was going to take the picture of Misha and I with me. I had done a lot of thinking about him and I had decided that he was coming with me. Even though, you know, he wasn't actually coming with me. In the picture, the two of us were standing back to back, and I had one of my medals around my neck. He was grinning and making finger guns, one of which was pointing up and the other was pointing at the camera. I remember taking that picture. Mama had cropped it so that you couldn't see how Misha was bending his knees so that we could look like we were the same height.

During the last minute packing, I ran into my room and carefully peeled the tape off of the photograph so as not to rip it. I stared at it for a moment before folding it in half long ways, so that it looked like a small, fat rectangle instead of a tall, thin one. I brought the picture up to my mouth and kissed it. I then put it into the pocket of my shorts and scanned the room for anything else I might want to take. I wound up stealing Ravil’s Rubik’s Cube. He probably wouldn't be mad. He probably wouldn't even know that it was me who had taken it. At six o’clock, Mama told me to get in the car so that we could go to the airport. Aliya insisted on coming too.

“Are you coming, Ravil?” She asked, helping me lug my suitcases out to the car. He shook his head.

“Nah, I don't feel like it,” He said. Before I could actually get into the car, Ravil pulled me aside and hugged me tightly. He didn't let me go for a really long time, and when he was finished with the hug, He pushed me away by the shoulders.

“I’m gonna miss you, even though I kind of hate you. But you’re my little brother, and I love you, Beka,” He said, flushing slightly, as if he was embarrassed to have said that in a place where anybody could have heard.

“You know how we don't really see Kazakhstan’s flag that often in the Olympics and stuff? Well, you’re going to change that. Even if it’s just in figure skating. Whatever big competition you have to win, go out there and win it,” Ravil said, “Get your stupid ass to Russia.” I couldn't believe that he was actually saying that to me. I felt a surge of joy, and I couldn't help but smile.

“Thanks, Ravil.” His face warped slightly, and I straightened the hat I was wearing. “Goodbye. I’ll miss you,” I said, and got into the car. Mama didn't make any comment about the fact that I was sitting in the front seat. I waved out the window at Ravil while Mama started to drive away from the house. Once she got on the highway, it really started to sink in that I was leaving, and that I wouldn't be coming back for quite some time.

“Okay, Beka…” She mumbled, “Do you have your passport?” I nodded. It was in my backpack.

“Boarding pass? Plane ticket? Visa?” I said yes. They were all in a plastic bag together, in my backpack.

“Do you know what to do when you get through security?” She asked.

“I go to the gate and wait for the plane to leave. Then, when they start calling boarding groups, I wait until mine is called. I show your ticket to the person who’s letting people into the plane and when I get into the actual plane, I find the seat that’s on the ticket and I sit there until it lands in Saint Petersburg. When I get off the plane, I get my bags and go through customs, and then I go outside and look for Mr. and Mrs. Markovich,” I recited. Mama nodded.

“Yes. I’ll be with you through security, but after that, you’re on your own.” I swallowed. On my own. Actually, properly, all alone. With nobody to help me. The thought was as exhilarating as it was terrifying. What if I went to the wrong gate, or left my bags somewhere and it took ten weeks for me to get them back? Or worse, what if I missed the flight or got on the wrong plane or something? What if the plane crashed? I mean, I knew it was unlikely, but I couldn't help but think _what if_ about a whole number of terrifying events that could occur between now and when I landed in Saint Petersburg. It was somehow a thousand times more real when Mama parked the car at the airport.

We got out of the car, and Aliya carried one of my suitcases.

“Thanks,” I said to her.

“No problem,” She responded, “Now that your expensive ass is gone, I can benefit from all that extra money.”

“That’s actually not how it works,” Mama commented, “It’s only really the money I spent on gas to take him to the rink and dance class, and the food, water, and clothing money that’s back in my pocket. And it’s not going straight to you, missy. It’d actually probably go to Serik instead.”

“Ha,” I said, and stuck my tongue out at her. Aliya sneered and returned the gesture.

“No more of your practicing in the house?” She said, in reference to the times when I would practice a jump or something for ballet while inside, meaning I fell down a lot. And I had the tendency to curse at myself when I fell down.

“I’ll give you that,” I said. “And no more metronome.” That was also coming with me. We went inside, and I got my suitcases checked. We got in line for security, and once I was through, Mama hugged me on the other side and told me that she loved me and would miss me. She kissed me on the top of my head. I hugged Aliya goodbye too. She was taller than I was, and it infuriated me.

“I’ll miss you,” She said, “Thanks for cutting my hair back when we were kids.”

“We’re still kids.”

“Shut up.”

After we said our goodbyes, I turned and walked towards the gates. There wasn't much of a crowd, so when it came the time for me to turn the corner, I stopped, and waved at them one last time. They waved back. I whispered under my breath that I loved them, and walked out of their sight. I followed the signs to where my gate was, and wound up waiting twenty five minutes for the plane to take off. It was both terrifying and exhilarating when the plane left the ground, and for the first, but definitely not the last time, I was able to watch Almaty fade until the ground was just a blur.

I found that I was not at all fond of airplanes. My joints felt like they had liquified inside of my body, and my right wrist had decided that it would start aching for no apparent reason. I was cold and far too warm at the same time, so I opened my backpack and reached around inside for the hoodie that I had put in there. I pulled it out of the bag and slid it on. There was so much extra fabric pooling at my stomach and around my arms. I pulled the hood up leaned against the wall of the plane with hopes that maybe it would make leaning against the wall a tad more comfortable. It did not. I still leaned my head against the wall, making a futile attempt to get some sleep. There was no doubt that I would be up until at least one. I shifted around in my seat, bored. I stared down at the open book in my lap. I didn't remember what it was even about. I made an attempt to read some, but the words just blurred together. I woke up about an hour later. My head had fallen forward and created a small ache in my neck. I felt like I hadn't slept at all, but I clearly had. The other people around me had been doing things like talking softly and listening to music and playing on their phones and that sort of thing when I had been making an attempt to read, and now the grand majority of my fellow air travellers were asleep.

There were also these little sheets of paper everywhere. Border control, apparently. I would have filled out the form, only I didn't have a pen. So I waited until the person sitting next to me woke up. She sat up, opened their eyes, and yawned. I took a deep breath and began my asking for help speech.

“Hey,” I said, “Do you have a pen I could borrow?” She blinked her blue eyes a few times, and then squinted at me.

“Yes, give me a moment,” She said, speaking with a slight Russian accent, and bent down to rifle through her own carry on bag. Not long after bending down, she retrieved a blue ball point pen and handed it to me.

“Thanks,” I said, and started filling out the form. The ink from the pen was glittery. I didn't really like it, but I did what I had to do and gave it back to the woman. She grunted in response, and started to fill out her own form.

“Um,” I started, and picked up my form, “What am I supposed to do with this?” I asked. The paper crinkled gently in my hand.

“It for border control,” She mumbled, and put her pen away when she was done with it. I wasn't really sure what border control was, exactly. I mean, I knew that I would have to go and become an official immigrant to Russia and exchange all my money, but I had no idea how I was supposed to do that. I asked the woman sitting next to me, and she explained it all. It was still confusing.

“This your first time flying?” She asked. I nodded.

“Good for you,” I didn't know what was so good about it, but I faked a smile and began to panic a bit more about what was going to happen when I got to Russia. Mama hadn't told me about this part, and I didn't think I could call her while in the air. I started to think worse and worse things. What if I wasn't allowed to officially enter the country? It wasn't my fault that I didn't know how to deal with border control, but it sure felt like it at the moment. I needed to calm down and ask for help.

“U-Um, Miss,” I said again, “W-What do I do after getting off the plane?” They sighed.

“So, you’re want to go to baggage claim. Are you Russian?” She asked. I thought that was a dumb question, seeing as I was speaking Kazakh better than she was and I guess I looked like I was from Kazakhstan. I’d never met anyone who wasn't, though, so I can't really say. But yeah, I had thought the way I was speaking or my accent or the way I looked would have given it away. But apparently not.

“No, I’m from-”

“After get off the plane, you go to baggage claim. But first you go through customs and border control and get visa stamped.” I sighed. I didn't really know what customs were. It took her a good twenty minutes to explain to me what I was supposed to do, and even then I didn't really get it. Well, at least I thought I did. At that time, there was about an hour left of the flight, which had been quite the lengthy one. At least, I assume. I had never been on an airplane before and while it would surely take longer to fly to New York or Bangkok or something than to Saint Petersburg, I wasn't really one to judge. My mental map of the world was pretty scrambled, and whenever I looked at an actual map, I was always surprised about one thing or another. But whatever. I spent the last hour of the plane flight staring out the window in rampant nervousness and excitement. I couldn't see very much, as it was currently raining and also very dark outside, but I was able to watch the lights of Saint Petersburg grow closer.

I was just as surprised about the plane’s landing as I was about the takeoff. The bump against the ground made me jolt out of my seat (or at least, as much as I could, given the seatbelt.) and make a small noise of surprise. When the plane stopped moving, a voice came on over a PA system.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Pulkovo International Airport. Local time is twenty-two thirty, and the outside temperature is ten degrees Celsius. For your safety and comfort, please remain seated with your seatbelt fastened until the Captain turns off the Fasten Seat Belt sign. This will indicate that we have parked at the gate and that it is safe for you to move about. Cellular phones may only be used once the Fasten Seat Belt sign has been turned off. Please check around your seat for any personal belongings you may have brought on board with you and please use caution when opening the overhead bins, as heavy articles may have shifted around during the flight.If you require deplaning assistance, please remain in your seat until all other passengers have deplaned. One of our crew members will then be pleased to assist you. On behalf of Air Astana and the entire crew, I’d like to thank you for joining us on this trip and we are looking forward to seeing you on board again in the near future. Have a nice stay in Saint Petersburg.” Shortly after the voice stopped, the Fasten Seat Belt sign turned off. It took me a bit longer than it should have to figure out how to unbuckle the seatbelt, but once I did, I picked up my backpack and dug out my passport, visa, and the border control form. I put them in the big pocket that was sewn over the stomach of my sweatshirt and stood around until it was my turn to leave. I kept one of my hands in the pocket as well, gripping the documents tightly. I walked off the plane, and found myself overcome with a new wave of panic. I had actually done it. I had flown to Russia. And shit, I was scared. I could read some of the signs, but not all, which made me even more afraid. I had a Russian dictionary in my backpack, but it probably wasn't advisable to just pick up a dictionary whenever I forgot a word. Everyone around me was speaking in Russian, and I was standing in the middle of a crowded area panicking because I couldn't remember certain words. I wished I could think in Russian; then this whole ordeal would be a lot easier. But then again, I would also probably be, yunno, Russian.

I followed a sign that read Baggage Claim and had a picture of a suitcase next to it. I tried as hard as I could to start thinking in Russian, but it didn't work all that well. I wished my mom was here. She was fluent in Russian. I mean, I did know a lot of Russian, but it was my weaker language by far, and it was stressful to have no other language to rely on.

I wound up in a very long line to do…something. Since I wasn't a Russian citizen, I had to get in this line and wait to get my visa and passport stamped or something. Airports were confusing and a bit overwhelming. And I don't think I’d ever been this tired from sitting before. I yawned before going up to a little booth, at which a woman asked me to see the form I had filled out on the plane. I handed it to her, and she scribbled something on the side.

“ _Are you here for work or pleasure?_ ” She asked. Well, I wasn't here for vacation, but I didn't have a job either. I mean, you could count figure skating as a profession, which I sort of did. Although there was a huge gap between me, a twelve year old boy with nothing but a dream and three silver medals in a local competition that the sponsors probably didn't even take to seriously, and a person who could win gold medals in international competitions. Of course, it would be a bit awkward to try and explain my hopes and dreams in an airport, where I was holding up a line, so I just went with the more accurate of the two options.

“ _Work,_ ” I responded. Technically, or maybe hypothetically, I wasn't lying. She nodded, and asked me for my passport.

“ _How long are you going to stay in Russia?_ ” She asked. I shrugged, and then said,

“ _One year_.” She took a look at my passport and my visa, stamped both of them with purple ink, and told me to move along. I shoved my papers back into my pocket and kept following the signs on the walls. I had to put my backpack through a metal detector, and then walk through one myself, and then I was allowed to go and get my suitcases. I kept walking until I found a place where all of the bags from various flights were being unloaded onto a conveyer belt. It took me about half an hour to find both of mine. One of my suitcases was mine, and it was black. The other was Mama’s, and it looked like a giant silver Lego brick. At least, to me. There was nothing sticking off of it or anything, but I had been associating it with a Lego brick for so long that I didn't really know what else to call it anymore. Then again, all suitcases look pretty much like Lego bricks, don't they? Whatever. That’s not the point. After I found my suitcases, I tried to remember what I had been told to do at this point. I had to look around until I found Mr. and Mrs. Markovich. That shouldn't have been too hard, only it was an incredibly difficult thing to do. They were old, in their seventies, and both had silver hair and blue eyes. Mrs. Markovich had hair that was quite lengthy, and Mr. Markovich was in a wheelchair. Mama had told me that when people went to airports to pick other people up, they sometimes brought signs with the people’s names on them, so that they were easier to find. I wished and didn't wish that they had brought a sign with my name on it. I wished that they had because then it would have been much easier to find them, and I didn't because I wasn't the largest fan of my name and I didn't want it to be on a sign in a public space. Does that make sense? Whatever, that’s not the point.

It took me another fifteen minutes to locate the couple. Or, rather, it took them fifteen minutes to locate me. I was greeted my Mr. Markovich tapping me on the shoulder, which caused me to squeak incredibly loudly, leap into the air and begin boiling with humiliation. I had caught the eyes of some strangers, and I didn't want them to be looking at me. Even though there were only a few people who I didn't know looking at me, I still felt embarrassed out of my skin.

“ _H-Hi_ ,” I said softly.

“ _Hello, Otabek!_ ” Mrs. Markovich said softly, “ _Welcome to Russia!_ ” She and her husband led me outside to a parking lot, where she helped me put my suitcases into the trunk of the car. She asked me to help with getting Mr. Markovich into the car, due to his wheelchair, and I did help her with that. He was heavier than he looked. After we had all gotten into the car, it was about an hour, maybe an hour and a half, drive to their house. I had never been so tired from doing nothing. All I wanted to do was go to sleep. And what was worse, as I grew more exhausted, it became harder and harder for me to speak good Russian. Mr. and Mrs. Markovich had struck up a friendly conversation with me while we were in the car, about my life back home and figure skating. They didn't know too much about skating, but had watched the Olympics every year and thought that figure skating was typically reserved for women, but that they supported me in my choices. I didn't like the way that Mr. Markovich had said that. But in the end, the conversation about home got me thinking about Misha. I wanted to call him, only I think I would fall asleep in the middle of the call and he would be left to listen to the sounds I made in my sleep and be confused.

After we got to their house, which was quite a lot further from the airport than I had anticipated, I had to help Mr. Markovich out of the car and into his wheelchair again. The rain got in my eyes. It was the slanty kind of rain, the kind you couldn't avoid even if you had an umbrella. It was almost raining sideways. Also almost hail. I shivered as I walked up the ramp that lead into their home. Even though I had only been outside a few minutes, I was wet down to my underwear, and freezing cold. I was shown my room, and as soon as Mrs. Markovich said goodnight and left, I took off all my clothes, and had been about to get into the bed, but then I decided that I would put on some underwear first. I wasn't typically the kind of person who slept naked, but I was too tired to care. Besides, the blanket was warm, if not terribly itchy, and I could always pretend that I was back in my grandparents house, sleeping under the telescope sheets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet you didn't think I would update so fast. but here i am again. huh. funny how the 11th chapter is 2011.  
> (also i have no idea how any of the border control/customs stuff works, so that was me doing a little bit of research and going off of my own experiences. but then again, i've never been to russia, so this was probably inaccurate as hell) 
> 
> https://paraduxkys.tumblr.com/
> 
> Bye for now.


	12. 2011.2

Saint Petersburg

 

In my very limited experience, Russia was a lonely country. It was cold and wet, even in the summer, and it made me take on a melancholy persona. Well, not melancholy, per say, but it drained me. The cell phone my mother had given me didn't work unless I had access to WiFi, which is to say, it worked when I was at Mr. and Mrs. Markovich’s house. I texted my mom every day, and we Skyped every Wednesday and Saturday at five post meridian, Almaty time, and two post meridian Saint Petersburg time. Aliya and Ravil would talk to me most days and tell me about the goings on in their day to day lives, and it made me so damn homesick. By the end of the summer, I was nearly fluent in Russian, but I was still a tiny bit on edge when I had to talk to people.

I liked talking to my family and all, but the person I really missed talking to was Misha. It wouldn't be possible for me to call him, unless I used the house phone. If he was missing me so much, why hadn't he called? Maybe he had just done what any normal person would do and stopped trying to be friends with me. I don't blame him. I was nearly five thousand kilometers and three time zones away, after all, not to mention in a different country. I missed him anyway. I didn't ask if I could use the house phone because I was afraid to. The Markoviches were nice people. They thought that every time I talked about dancing or skating was adorable and that I was so sweet and passionate and all that garbage. They were willfully ignorant towards a lot of things and didn't pay me much attention when I didn't want it. They had gotten me a subway card, which I used to ride the trains to and from the rink and the ballet studio. The studio offered a summer camp during the first week of July, which I had signed up for as soon as I had learned about it. I hadn't been as adamant about keeping up with ballet over the winter, and so I was a little out of practice.

I went to a rink every day except for the weekends, and with the help of Mr. Markovich, I signed up for classes that they offered. I’m pretty sure I saw Viktor Nikiforov there once, but it could’ve just been another tall, silver haired person. Or my deluded, skating-obsessed mind. Probably the latter. Anyway, nothing really eventful happened to me until the ballet summer camp. I just sort of milled around, going from location to location and occasionally having an existential crisis on the floor of my new bedroom. I found myself in the sort of mood where I had to wrap myself up in blankets and lay around on the verge of tears for hours at a time, which isn't the best sort of mood to be in when one is trying to become a star.

The one time I actually did cry was when I was digging around in one of my suitcases and found a small, brown box. It was made of cardboard, and had my name written on it in sharpie. I didn't remember putting that in there. I pulled it out of the suitcase and opened it. There were envelopes inside. I pulled the one on the top out. It was sealed with a bunny sticker. I flipped it around so I could see who it was addressed to. It read, in Aliya’s handwriting, (which was absolutely awful, mind you) TO: BEKA FROM: ALIYA. I flipped it back around, tore the sticker off, and yanked out the piece of lined paper inside. It took me way too long to unfold the paper, and when I did, I read it as fast as was humanly possible. It read,

 

_Dear Beka,_

_Hi, it’s Aliya. Which you probably knew because you read the outside. Whatever. Hey, it’s your little sister! Also not a good introduction. Whatever again. Whatever_ _2_ _. So, Mama is making us write you letters to open when you’re in Russia so that you can have a little piece of us there with you. Or as I like to think, a little bit of warmth while you’re stuck in a cold and depressing place. Anyway, I wanna tell you good luck with your training, and have fun in Russia. I’m going to miss watching TV with you and your mean comments on everything. I’m also going to miss when you try to play football, and when you cook and sew. I know I don't say it a lot, but I love you and I hope your dreams come true! You deserve it!_

_Love, Aliya._

 

I read Mama’s next:

 

_Beka-_

_Since I know how lonely you can get, I’m asking your siblings and grandparents, and that boyfriend of yours to write you letters. You shouldn’t have opened them before you got to Russia, but if you did, there’s nothing I can do about it now. I want to tell you how much I love you. I love you to the moon and back and beyond, and if you ever feel lonely, you can read the letters that are in this little box of love. We all cherish you- you have a great point of view in life and while you may be the black sheep of our family, I wish that you would interact with us some more. You’re a lot like your father, and even though you didn't get to know him very well, I know that he would be so proud of you for winning those medals that you won. He would have said that the judges had screwed you over, and that you deserved to win. Especially last year. But I’m not here to write a letter in his place. If you ever feel lonely, just remember the emotions that can't be put into words. It’s always easier in a logical sense when one of my babies leaves, but, just like when Serik left for college, your absence will leave a hole in my heart. As a mother, I find it hard to understand how grandparents and great grandparents are able to cope with watching their children and their children’s children grow into adults. You’ll understand when you have a wife and children of your own how it hurts to lose that part of yourself. I’ve had four children and one miscarriage, and it feels like losing a piece of my identity to see my children leaving me. Of course, it felt the same way when I was pregnant with Serik, but I suppose that humans just aren't good with change. So prove me wrong. Train hard, and win the Grand Prix Final. Make us proud. Not just your family, but every young figure skater in Kazakhstan. You have such strong potential, and can do amazing things. I’ll miss you more than I can convey._

_Love from Almaty,_

_Inzhu Altin_

_Mama ♡_ _☺_

 

She had taped a picture of me to the inside of her letter. I was standing on a balcony that overlooked the city and had a great view of the sun as it set over the mountains. I started tearing up after reading hers, and I even looked up to see if there was a leak in the roof. But I knew that there wasn't. It wasn't even raining outside. Today, it was actually sunny for once. I held the piece of paper to my heart and curled in on myself. Reading Mama’s letter made me want to get on the next flight back home. I may not have liked my family that much, but God, I didn't know how to cope with being told I was so loved. And at the same time, I wanted to read every letter at once. I dumped out the box, and saw that there were four more letters. One from Grandma, one from Grandpa, one from Ravil and Serik (they had combined forces), and one from Misha. My heart quickened upon seeing my name written in his handwriting. It was the only one with my actual name written on it- All the other ones said Beka. I hated that nickname for how common it was. There were at least three guys who you could call Beka in my homeroom at school.

I decided that I was going to read Misha’s letter last. His was probably going to be the most loving, and the most understanding. Shit. I wiped away some of the tears that were on my cheeks, and closed my eyes. I thought back to every hug he had given me (although I don't know if I can even count that high) and to when he had kissed my forehead. I thought of the dream I had had on my first night here- I had just kissed Misha softly and gently, on the mouth, and then it had been time to wake up. Dreams were funny in the way that they all had a big old ‘fuck you’ for linear timelines. But anyway. I picked up the remaining envelopes and went to sit on my bed. I opened Ravil and Serik’s next. Ravil’s handwriting graced the page first and had been delivered by a green crayon, while Serik’s had been typed and then printed and taped to the bottom of the page:

 

**_How you doin’, Bekkie boy? Mom is making us write these letters, and even though I don't really want to or have anything to say to you, iI thought I’d give it a shot. You suck! Not really. You’re actually really awesome, if not a bit gay. Although, to be honest, I don't really give a shit about who you like. Of course, if you tell anybody that, you’re destined to death by volcano or something. Anyway, kick ass and stay cool._ **

**_Ravil_ **

 

I didn't think that he would be able to make me cry so much, but there I was. I felt so loved, even if most of the letter implied otherwise. But then again, I had spent the majority of my life feeling like my brother didn’t love me. It was an emotional overload, and just about the most Ravil thing to ever exist. Which makes sense, of course, seeing as he was the one who wrote it. I cringed at the nickname he had given me while I cried. I hadn't really realized how much I was going to miss my brother. I moved on to read Serik’s letter:

 

_Beka:_

 

_I remember so clearly the day you were born. It was cold outside, and the leaves were starting to fall off the trees. Mama and Papa were at the hospital; they had left late the night before, and it was just me and Ravil at home. We made such a big mess, and he was crying at the time because he had just broken a framed family portrait. While I was trying to calm him down, the phone started ringing. I ran over to answer it, and it was Papa calling from the hospital. He was crying, and telling us to call grandpa to drive us over to meet our new baby brother. I asked him what your name was, but he wouldn't tell me until we arrived. So I called grandpa, and he came and drove us to the hospital. We went to Mama’s room, although we had to wash our hands before going in. Mama and Papa were smiling so wide when we came in. She was holding you, all wrapped up in a blanket. You were crying loud enough to wake the stars, and I got to hold you. You cried even louder when I took you from Mama. I didn't care, though, I was getting to hold my baby brother! I was extra proud, I remember, because Mama wouldn't let me hold Ravil. I was so proud and happy and full of warmth when you finally stopped crying and looked up at me with big brown eyes. It was like you were smiling at me. I loved you so much the first time I laid eyes on you, and nothing can really compare to that moment. I hope that your time in Russia lets you win the Olympics, and then you can come home and feel proud. I looked it up online, and you make history as the first man to win the Olympics in figure skating for Kazakhstan. You’re super awesome, and you’re going to be bigger than big when you grow up. Love, Serik._

 

His didn't make me cry very much. It mostly made me wonder about my birth, and then it made me picture my own birth and conception, which thoroughly ruined the mood I was in. I tried desperately to get rid of the images that had come into my mind, and thought about what he had said. This was my chance to be a star. Horrific mental imagery aside, I leaned forward to grab Grandma’s letter. It was only a few simple lines:

 

_You are a great skater and just as great a young man. Show them who’s boss, and don't come home until you’ve proven that you’re worth everything your mother and I have done for you._

_-Bibigul_

 

She was like a commanding officer, and made me want to prove to her that I was worth all of the money and time they had invested in me. I was going to make her proud. I picked up Grandpa’s next:

 

_Dear Beka,_

_I’m not exactly sure what to write in this letter, so I will share with you a memory. When you were six years old, you came to stay with your grandmother and I over the summer for the first time. I told you stories about the war, and you made the comment that fighting wasn't a very good way to solve problems. Ravil said that it was a great idea, and that he thought it would be cool to be a soldier when he grew up. You two would fight about it until the cows came home. You’ve been wise beyond your years ever since you were born, and you never did have time for people less brilliant than yourself. Unfortunately, I was one of those people. You seemed to have been born knowing things that it’s taken me decades to learn. And on top of that, you are a skater. You’ve chosen to have a profession that is as unique as your personality, and you deserve all the good things in the world. I know I’ll be cheering you on during your first Olympics, be it from my armchair or from a rink somewhere in Almaty. I love you, and while I am sad to see you go, I know that you will be happy to get away from my cigar fumes. Once more, stay well._

_With love, Grandpa._

 

I smiled so wide when I read his letter. I loved him, too. It was so…I don't know. Maybe he knew and cared about me more than I thought he did. They all loved me more than I thought they did, and some even knew me better. I would cherish these letters. I wondered if this was how other people felt all the time. No, it probably wasn't. Other people had the same sorts of feelings as I did. I was nothing special. However, I couldn't think about how loved I felt when I was being stared down by Misha’s letter. It was on that day that I lost a staring contest with an envelope. A goddamn envelope. My excuse is that I was overwhelmed by the way I felt. I wanted it to be a letter affirming that he had meant the kiss to be romantic, or platonic, and maybe an explanation of his feelings. See, I’d been thinking a lot about Misha for the last few weeks, and I had realized that he was a guy that I’d kind of want to be with, in a more romantic context. I…I liked him. I liked him and I wanted to see him again, even if it was just through a cell phone screen. I felt bad about not calling him over the past few weeks, but then again, he hadn't called me either, so there. I couldn't play that game, though. I missed him. Missing him made my heart hurt. But that wasn't the point. The longer I sat there, refusing to look at the stupid envelope, the worse I started to feel.

I swallowed and looked back at Misha’s letter. He had written my full name on it, too. I reached out to grab it, and then paused. How could I have been so stupid as to think that he meant that kiss- Not even a real kiss- to be romantic? I sighed. He probably didn't even write the letter about his feelings for me. It was probably just like the rest of them- Good luck, have fun, do your best, make me proud, I love you. In my opinion, they only really needed to be said once. Although maybe if being told I was loved could make me feel like this, I might have to rethink a few of my opinions. I sighed, and tore Misha’s envelope open. It held two full pages of handwritten text, or one if you thought that writing on two sides of a page only counted as one page.

I started reading, and noticed how a lot of the first page had eraser marks, and that I could sort of make out the shapes of the letters underneath them. I would put myself through the hell of trying to figure out what he had wanted to write later.

 

~~_Dear Otabek,_ ~~

~~_Hi!_ ~~

~~_To Otabek:_ ~~

~~_Otabek:_ ~~

_Dear Otabek,_

 

_The time has come at last, huh? Today is the last day before the beginning of your life as a figure skater. The idea of leaving your hometown and going to Russia all alone probably scares you. There’s nothing familiar up there, and it’s going to be so cold…But I know you can handle it. I would say that you can handle anything, but nobody’s perfect and nobody can handle everything. It’s just that you’re so brave and so strong, and you’re just amazing._

 

I found myself smiling. I knew that I was wrong about the kiss being romantic, but at least it was nice to pretend a little bit. I told myself, somewhere in the back of my head, that letting myself think that his letter meant he liked me that way wasn't something I should do, but for now, I was glad to pretend.

 

_I’ve been trying to think about what to write you a lot, and I can't come up with anything good, so I’m just going to write down what I feel. You’re my best friend. And, if I’m right, I’m your best friend. And you are way cooler than I am. What they say about opposites attracting must be true, because look at us: You’re right handed, I’m left handed, you love spicy food, and what you think is nothing could probably make me faint, you’re an introvert, I’m an extrovert. I wear socks everywhere while you have tan lines on your feet from your sandals. You’re a genius and you’re going to be a world class athlete some day, while I’m going to wind up waiting tables or something like that. The first time I saw you, you were this tiny little boy (and you still are) who walked into ballet class with his head down. While you struggled to touch your ankles, I was already doing splits. You had to take a break in the middle of class, and I felt bad for you. You walked over to the other side of the room, away from the barre, and sat on your knees for a few minutes before joining back in. I wanted to ask you if you were okay, but we were in the middle of class and I didn't think it was the right time. You came in every day with a glare on your face, until then you didn't. It was a while before I saw you again. And when you came again, you were exactly the same. You were like a little soldier. Your motions weren't like everybody else’s, you were very technical and stumbled quite often._

_I remember the first time I talked to you. I don't know why I thought you were going to be so unapproachable. You were so lonely, and I really liked hanging out with you. You may not talk a lot, but when you get rambling, I get to hear your train of thought, and you’re really smart. I know you’ve probably heard that a lot. Maybe that’s because you care about your schoolwork. But the smart that I’m talking about is the kind that they don't teach you in school, it’s the kind that you have to learn for yourself. God, you are so interesting. I love people, and I love talking to them and meeting them and experiencing them. I learn about them by interacting, while you learn from observing, and maybe that’s how you got to be so smart. You know, you’re my favorite person. And that’s where you should probably stop reading._

 

I blinked slowly. My eyes were wet with tears but dry from the salt they provided. I wanted to yell to Misha that he was also my favorite person. Even if it was the middle of the night and

 

_But I know you, and you’d read every word ever written if you could. And you’d also read what’s next because I just told you not to._

 

I actually laughed out loud. It may have only been a snicker, but it still counts!

 

 _Unfortunately, the fact that you’re the best person in the world to me is where things get complicated. I’ve always thought that your smile was gorgeous, and that your laugh was just as much of a blessing. Watching you skate is some sort of higher honor that I don't know why you gave me but you did. It isn't a secret that I tend to be on the more affectionate side. But you make me feel kind of bad about how I want to hug you, or hold your hand or stuff like that. If I actually did kiss you before you wound up reading this, then…I don't know, add kissing to the list of stuff I want to do. I feel bad because, see, I have another secret to tell you. It’s dumb, yeah, but it’s true. I’m pansexual. It means I love people regardless of their genders. I think that both girls and guys are hot,_ ~~_and you’re one of those guys that I_ ~~ _and it’s a relief to tell you this because_ ~~_it applies to you_ ~~ _of all the things you’ve told me about yourself. I feel like I’m repaying the favour, if that makes any sense._

 _God, I’m going to miss you so much when you’re in Russia. I’m going to miss everything about you. You’re going to leave a hole in my life. And though I know you’ll come back one day and I know I’ll get to hug you as soon as you step off that airplane, that’s still ages away. You don't even know how long it’s going to be! So…I don't know. When you read this, call me. Let’s talk to each other and pretend that we’re only a few kilometers apart, and that you’re not in Saint Petersburg. I want to always be around you, Otabek, and it feels weird to me because I don't know if I’ve ever had a person I felt this strongly about. Usually, being around just one person for hours on end can bore me, but I don't feel that way with you. In fact, sometimes I think that there’s too many people around us, even if we’re all alone._ ~~_I want to hug you and kiss you and hold your hand. I want to call you my boyfriend._ ~~ _You’re my best friend. And you’re the best friend anyone could ask for._

 _When you’re the reigning World Champion, winner of the Grand Prix Final, and Olympic champion at the same time, call me up. It doesn't matter if you’re off in some country on the other side of the world, I’ll answer. I’ll take you out for a drink._ ~~_So, yeah, I guess that this is my way of asking you out on a date._ ~~ _Not just anybody can be your friend. It’s like an elusive crown that people have heard exist but they can never be quite sure._ ~~_You’re like this majestic treasure that people make maps to, and_ ~~ _I’m so lucky to have known you. I would tell you good luck or something like that, but you don't need it. You’re already_ ~~_the best guy in the world_ ~~ _a super talented athlete, and I’ve had the pleasure of watching you grow. I don't want to end this letter, but everything has to end at some point. There are more things I need to tell you, but I can't exactly do that right now. Don't forget about me when you’re off being amazing._

~~_I hope to hear from you soon_ ~~

~~_Love,_ ~~

~~_Sincerely,_ ~~

~~_From,_ ~~

~~_Goodbye,_ ~~

~~_With all my love,_ ~~

_Love,_

_Misha Antonov ♡_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeeeeeey, y'all. Hope you enjoyed that chapter, and if you didn't, well, that's cool too.
> 
> And if you left in chapter one 'cause it was written in the first person pov, you're not reading this. But hey, thanks for sticking around. I'm not in a great mood, so I hope that this chapter can make at least one person happy. Bye for now. 
> 
> Also thanks to my editor in chief. you know who you are. 
> 
> Bye for now (for real this time)


	13. 2011.3

If I had to pick a worst day of my life, I think it would have been the Monday after reading all of those letters. I was struck with an excruciating loneliness for the entire day, so that was one bad thing. The next thing was that I overslept. When I checked the time on my phone after I woke up, I saw that I should’ve been on the subway five minutes ago. I briefly contemplated not leaving my room, but pushed that thought aside almost instantly. Mama was paying for everything I did in Russia, and I wasn't just going to waste thousands of rubles because I was tired. Of course, it was probably more in tenges, I just wasn't that good at multiplying large numbers in my head. Well, that’s not exactly true. It would just take a while and I would probably come up with the wrong number. Anyway, I was going to be late. I threw off the blankets, and ran downstairs without changing my clothes. I was almost putting my shoes on when I realized that I didn't have my metro card, at which point I sprinted back up to my room to grab my backpack.

“ _You’re up late today,_ ” Mrs. Markovich commented as I flew down the stairs for the second time, “ _Are you okay?_ ” I stopped, fell to my knees, and started putting my shoes on.

“ _Dance camp begins today!_ ” I shouted, and struggled to tie a double knot at lightning speed.

“ _Wait, that was this week? I thought it was next week. Oh well,_ ” She said, “ _Do you want me to drive you or are you going to take the subway?_ ” I finished tying a sloppy knot on my left shoe and moved on to my right shoe. It was times like these that I wondered why I wasn't like every other kid who wore shoes with laces. See, most people I knew left their laces tied when they weren't wearing them, but I found that that was an easier way to wreck your shoes, and since I only got one new pair of shoes a year, (I had had my sandals for forever; it wasn't like my feet had done much growing recently anyway) I thought that it was better to preserve them by not destroying the heels. I still had quite a few pairs of shoes that had been destroyed by dogs, though.

“ _Yes, if driving wouldn’t be a problem for you,_ ” I said. She slipped her own shoes on and set down her cup of tea on a table. She stretched, and then milled as slowly as possible to the other side of the room and to retrieve the car keys. She was back on the other side of the room by the time I stood up and had my bag slung over my shoulders.

“ _I’m driving Otabek to ballet,_ ” She shouted as we walked out of the house.

“ _This early?_ ” Her husband shouted back, from deep within the house. Or, you know, the kitchen. There was a breakfast bar and everything. I dashed in there and grabbed an apple, which I would eat in the car.  

“ _Yes!_ ” I yelled as I ran from the kitchen to the front room, and exploded out onto the porch where Mrs. Markovich was waiting. I pulled the door shut behind us. It was then that I learned that Mrs. Markovich was a slow walker. I mean, I had already known that, but watching her walk to the car was almost painful, especially knowing that time had already been wasted. I was going to make a bad first impression, wasn't I? I mean, I already knew some of the people there, so it couldn't be that bad, right? Well, actually it could. When I walked in, I proved myself to be quite out of practice. It was only really because of what happened after I broke my wrist. Because I had made a mess worse by skating, Mama decided that I wasn't allowed to go skating until I got the cast off. Those six weeks had been hell on Earth. In the time that I wasn't allowed to skate, I went to ballet as if I was addicted, although I found that I didn't enjoy it as much as I used to. So after a few weeks, I stopped going every day and cut the three and a half hours down to two. I used the new free time to play soccer with Aliya and sometimes Ravil a little bit more. Then, after my cast was sawed off, Misha and I went straight to the rink. I went mostly to get back in shape, and he went because it was fun. I performed everything I knew how to do, and did it all with a smile on my face, which Misha happened to think was an anomaly that should be put in museums. I showed him my triples and my doubles, which he applauded. I found that moving hard and fast and with all of the energy that had been wasting away was so much better than anything I’d ever felt. It was euphoric. Soon after, I found myself going skating more than I went to ballet, and during the winter, skating sort of wound up replacing ballet to the point where I started trading schoolwork for skating. I was able to find a balance, thank God, but basically, ballet was pushed to the back burner. I liked skating better anyway, so what was the harm?

I’ll tell you what the fucking harm was, pal. After being eight minutes late to ballet camp, I got yelled at, although that was to be expected. I deserved it for not setting an alarm or doing _something_ to make sure I would be on time. But here’s the bigger picture, I hadn't been to a ballet class since the beginning of May, and it was currently the fourth of July. In the deluded arrogance that every child possesses, I thought that I would be fine. I still remembered how to do everything I had learned in my previous years as a ballerino, so it would be fine. Things were not fine. Apparently it was a lot easier than I had thought for my body to forget things. Although I guess that made sense, considering how much I was addicted to skating. My movements were sloppy at best and I felt semi robotic while staring at my reflection. None of my limbs were in sync anymore, and half the time I wasn't pointing my toes when I should have been. My relevé had never been super high and my natural turnout had always been small, and today they felt like they were smaller. I was good at the turns, though. Maybe that was the only place I excelled, seeing as I was gifted with having ridiculously tense tendons that refused to loosen up even after years of ballet and figure skating.

Then, during the lunch break, I sat alone in the corner and didn't eat, although that was because in the haste to get out the door on time, there was no time to pack a lunch. Although that was the sort of thing I should have done the night before, so it was on me. I’m still glad that I traded reading the letters from everybody for lunch. I still felt like there was a hole in my stomach, and sort of like I couldn't breathe right. The instructor came up to me during the break and asked me why I wasn't eating. I said I didn't have food, and he gave me some money to get something from the vending machine outside. I got a bag of potato chips. At the end of the day, the instructor pulled me aside and asked me if I was doing okay. I nodded.

“ _Yes, yes, I am fine,_ ” I panted, “ _I didn't remember to bring a lunch._ ”  

“ _Yes, well, aside from your physical well being, there’s your dancing. You understand the fundamentals but you seemingly lack the ability to point your toe. This is the advanced class, and if you continue to demonstrate that you’re not cut out for it, you will be switched over to a more simple class. Do I make myself clear?_ ” He demanded, angrily. I nodded. I didn't like how crisp his voice was.

“ _Yes, sir,_ ” I said softly.

“ _Good. Remember a lunch tomorrow,_ ” He said, slapped me on the shoulder, and left me to tie my shoes in peace. I felt like crying. Each and every one of the Russian boys in the class could have danced circles, squares, and triangles around everyone I knew back home. And I had been in the advanced ballet class. I took the subway back to Mr. and Mrs. Markovich’s house, feeling even more pitifully mediocre than I usually did. I decided to call Misha as soon as I got back to the house. Well, as soon as Mrs. Markovich finished interrogating me on how my day had been.

“ _It was fine, I guess,_ ” I said, while untying my shoes.

“ _Saying that is the same as not answering, you know,_ ” She said, “ _Were the other kids nice? Did you have fun? Did you make any friends?_ ”

“ _I did not talk to the other boys,_ ” I said, “ _And no, I did not have fun._ ” She frowned. I finished untying my shoes and stood up, about to go to my room. When I started making a move towards the stairs, she stepped in front of me.

“ _Oh, why not?_ ” She asked, a concerned look on her face. I wanted to tell her that I was a petty child who had made the gross overestimation of his skills, and who thought he could snap right back into place after over a full month of not caring about ballet, but I didn't remember all of the words I needed.

“ _Because I’m lazy,_ ” I said.

“ _Well, maybe if you practiced more and had a nice personality, you could enjoy yourself,_ ” She said. That was probably one of the times in my life that I had felt the most offended. What was wrong with my personality? I mean, I wasn't the most talkative person, not a fan of strangers or small talk, and wasn't fluent in Russian. _That_ was why I didn't have any friends. And besides, a friend is someone like Misha. If I had talked to somebody during the lunch break, then I might have an aquaintance. And that’s a hard maybe.

“ _I know._ ” I said, and drew a circle on the ground with the biggest toe on my left foot while she spoke.

“ _In all honesty, if you’re training to be a professional skater, you should really do more ballet. From what I’ve seen, it’s just ballet but on ice._ ” She had a lot to say about the subject of figure skating and the way she thought I should be training, despite probably having never set foot on an ice rink in her life. I tuned her out. It was quite easy to tune people out, especially when I could be thinking about other things. I could be mentally drafting what I would say to Misha so that I didn't stutter, or I could be cringing at my response to a small, blond haired boy who had knocked me over while I was walking out of the building the ballet classes were held in. I had apologized for getting in his way, and he had shouted the following: _Watch where you’re going, asshole!_ A cursing child had never been so out of place and yet perfectly in position at the same time. I wondered where he had been, if he had been leaving at the same time as me but I hadn't seen him all day. Weird. Anyway, after Mrs. Markovich finished her speech full of assumptions on a sport she knew nothing about, I could finally bolt upstairs. I slammed the bedroom door shut behind me and dove onto the bed, where I climbed under the covers and curled myself into a tiny ball. I grabbed my cell phone off the nightstand, face flushed beyond what should have been humanly possible. My fingers felt like they were freezing, though. Maybe all the blood in my hands had gone to my cheeks.

I took a deep breath and turned on the phone. I typed in my passcode and clicked on the phone app. I dialed the number for Misha’s house, and held the phone up to my ear. Only then did time differences occur to me. It would have been seven pm at home. What if he was busy at the moment? No, of course he wasn't going to be busy. Unless he was eating dinner…I should have stopped worrying about it, though. It would all be fine. Right? Okay, I needed to stop focusing on how nobody was answering. It was totally fine, everything was going to be fine. I swear my heart stopped when the call went unanswered. I called again and again, but nobody picked up. After placing three calls, I decided to give up and go downstairs. Something I had wanted to do ever since I had learned about the Romanov family was to visit the Winter Palace, although that would probably involve me going there alone with hundreds of pop songs running through my head as I looked at the things the palace had to offer. Maybe I would imagine myself as crown prince of Russia, or an old Czar. Or a Czarina. I could be like Catherine the Great.

Only, leaving the house required permission, and one of my host parents would probably want to go as well, and I wanted to be alone to explore a castle. I could pretend that I wasn't a tourist if I was alone. Actually, they probably offered tours or something. Or maybe it was a museum inside. I didn't really know. But anyway, I asked if there were any household chores that needed to be done and earned myself the titles of sweet and considerate. Funny, I was rarely called either of those things; it was more typical for people to associate me with words that they thought held negative connotations. Quiet, unfriendly, standoffish, arrogant…The list goes on, and it’s most definitely longer than the list of positive words people typically use to describe me.

An hour or so later, after I had finished hand washing all the dirty dishes and had become convinced that my fingertips would never stop looking like raisins, I decided that yes, I would go outside today. I took the subway to the rink and skated around for a few hours, mostly going in a straight line along with everybody else who was there during the public skating hours. I did attract a little bit of attention when I started grapevining backwards and inserting random jumps, but then again, I wasn't the only kid figure skating. There was a tall, thin girl who was moving in a similar way to me. She looked a few years older than me, and had auburn hair in a plait down to the small of her back. Somehow, she looked a lot better than I did, although we seemed to be at about the same level. I was thankful for that. Being in Russia, and training with Russian skaters had made me realize that I was actually very bad at figure skating, and that everyone I knew at home was equally bad if not worse. I had always disagreed with Ms. Utkin’s methods of teaching, but my God, why did it have to be now that I had to relearn everything? I was in the Junior competing bracket this year. I think. I wasn't sure. I mean, I was supposed to be. I was old enough, the paperwork had been filled out, and while I didn't know shit about entrance fees, mine had probably been paid. But the point is, I should have been worrying about creating a program, the costume, the music, and everything that wasn't the fundamentals of various jumps.

I wished that I was at the level of skating where I could be confidant that I would have a high income each year off of sponsorships and prize money. As of late, my mother had been paying for all of my expenses. There was not a single way in the world for me to be more thankful for her, but at the same time, I couldn't feel more guilty. I wasn't doing a damn thing to help pay even a little bit of it back. You could argue that training in Russia was a segway to reaching that goal of being able to pay for my own travelling expenses, to cover the cost of buying a new pair of skates each year when I hit my growth spurt (It was bound to happen one of these days…) and whatever fee my coach at any given time would charge. I wanted to be self sufficient, and right now, I was anything but. Of course, I was also far too young to do anything about that, but that didn't mean that I still couldn't work my ass off. Although working my ass off was probably a step down from what I usually did. Usually, I went to sleep with bandaids and tape on my feet, and then lived out the rest of my day like that. You know, I think that the your feet and lower calves are really underappreciated, when it comes to how strong they are. All most people care about is their shoulders and thighs and abs, when they should be giving a fucking thank you note to the muscles that allow them to do something as simple as standing. They’re crazy strong, and nobody even notices that they’re there until they’ve walked excessively. Or in my case, skated or danced excessively. So, to the muscles in my feet, thanks a million.

But anyway, I was going to push the limits of my body until they broke, and then push the limits until I broke. When I healed from whatever had happened, I would push and push and push until there was nothing left to push with. If I couldn't do what I loved and make the people I loved proud, what was the point? And I guess I could make my country proud too. It couldn't hurt to get people to like me. If there were Kazakh skating fans that would support me, I would die from joy. Call me stingy, but I wasn't even sure I wanted to have hardcore fans. Watching Misha get excited about some dancer or musician or something could get scary. His current obsession was this rapper whose stage name was comprised mostly of letters and numbers. I wasn't even sure why Misha liked the guy’s music, but he had found something to like. And, actually, him being pansexual makes a lot more sense now. He had talked, on multiple occasions, about wanting to marry the rapper and about how hot or how good of a dancer he was, and how much the liked the songs, et cetera, et cetera. The funniest thing about it was that Misha couldn't rap for shit. When he sang along, he sounded like he was just saying the words quickly and with more joy. He asked me to sing along with his favorite song once, and so I had. ONCE. I did not enjoy it. Those four minutes had been hell, but apparently, Misha thought I was a good rapper. I joked that I was very good at wrapping boxes, which earned me a side glare and Misha telling me that I needed to regift my jokes, as if he didn't need to keep his puns under the wraps. But since his jokes were equally bad, I let things slide.

I wondered what Misha was doing right now. It must’ve been at least eight thirty pm in Almaty. I hoped that Ravil wasn't out with friends, or doing something stupid. Believe it or not, he was the responsible friend among his group of friends. At least I thought so. They were all these buff guys with ghosts of mustaches, and they spoke as if they cared more about who had been laid last than their own deaths. They scared the shit out of me, and I always went to hide in my bedroom when they came over to the house. Unfortunately, my room was not just mine, and they would sometimes come upstairs play cards while some of them drank beer in our room while I was in there. It was like the rule about not crossing the line of electrical tape only applied to me when they were in there. But since I had nowhere else to hide, I would often just read a book and judge them from the comfort of my side of the room. I would be lying if I told you I had never been offered a beer, or if I said I had never overheard something I would pay a million tenges to have erased from my memory. There were just some conversations you could never unhear. But anyway, his friends thought I was a cute little kid and would sometimes make fun of me for being small, even though Ravil was a pretty small guy too. We got it from our mother. He was shorter than most of his friends, and less of a dick, too. They were just inconsiderate human beings. And the thing was, Ravil got worse when he was around them. It was like seeing a bunch of elitists and conformists get high. Although that wasn't all of them, and it wasn't all the time. Unless they actually were getting high, but that was only once.

And God, did Ravil ever hate me for my ‘good boy act’. He said it was an act, because I knew more cuss words than the average person did by the time I was five, I knew how to sharpen knives the right way, (It may not have been quick and easy, but it was the right way to get the blades so sharp they could cut through damn near anything) I knew how to pressure point someone, and I put on muscle mass like crazy. Or at least, I had been putting on a lot of muscle mass lately. Since the only muscles Ravil cared about were probably in his upper arms and his abdomen, he would never get to notice how lines had started forming on my thighs and calves. I was amazed by them. I had no idea when they had arrived, but they were there, and they were fascinating. I mean, there were faint muscle lines all over my body, as if I was tensing them.

But anyway, he said I had a good boy act because he considered himself to be so much of a badass that when somebody else wasn't, they were automatically weak. And I didn't exactly run around trying to prove my strength and dominance or whatever. The only time I had ever been the first person to punch, I had broken my wrist. He also called me a ‘cash whore’. I had originally thought he meant a stripper, which didn't make much sense, but then I realized he was calling me out on how expensive I was to have as a son. He was absolutely right. Figure skating wasn't cheap. Having Ms. Utkin as a coach, or anybody as a coach, for that matter, wasn't cheap. Flying to Russia had been expensive as hell and so was each thing I used my cell phone to do. I wasn't an idiot. It made me hurt so much inside to think about my family not having warm water, or maybe even no electricity. There had been times Mama had chosen not to pay some bill because of me. All because of my stupid skating. The worst thing was, you couldn't give me a high enough sum of money to keep me from the ice. There were times when Aliya complained about her shoes not fitting anymore, but they were the largest shoes she had. That was when clothing was hit by a dart on the ‘essentials of living’ dart board. Sometimes it was electricity, which was the absolute worst. Aliya was afraid of the dark. I hated myself so much for loving skating. I made the unspoken promise that the very least I would do would be to work and skate and compete until I was broken. I would be in advertisements, I would get a second job, I would get as many damn sponsorships as possible. As long as I could help my family, and make them proud. I would show Mama that it hadn't been a mistake to support me in this dream of mine. It burned me that I was still so useless, and that I was still a cash whore.

I skated with a new passion, and managed to pull off more jumps than I had previously thought I could. I would be able to make it in the skating world. I had to, I thought, as I forced myself to go back to doing singles only. If these weren't perfect, how could I make my more advanced jumps better? Not long after I went back to only doing single jumps, this tiny blond kid skated into the rink. It didn't occur to me that he looked familiar. He was thinner than a twig, and skated like he was on top of the world. He was pulling off moves so complex it made me want to cry in shame. He was definitely younger than I was. I wanted to stop and stare when he pulled one of his feet up to around the back of his neck, but gawking at others didn't do any good for learning thing the way they were supposed to be learned. After about an hour, the thought entered my mind that if I wanted to call Misha at all tonight, or anyone at home, I would probably have to leave the rink now. I had been saying that to myself for the past fifteen minutes. It was super easy to just let my mind wander, which was one of the things that it did best. I kept telling myself that this was going to be the last lap, and then I wound up thinking the same thing seven laps later. Eventually, I made myself get off the ice. I didn't want to leave, but the sun was setting. It suddenly struck me just how hungry I was. I hadn't eaten anything all day, except for some saltines that I had stolen while washing the dishes. I hurried to take off my skates and get to the subway. My stomach had been empty for quite some time and had probably been making noises that I hadn't noticed while I was at the rink, and so it came as no surprise when it made a particularly loud gurgling noise. Only, of course it did. I had just gotten on a train, and not long after I took one of the few open seats, my stomach made a noise loud, low noise. I was fairly certain that everyone in the train had heard it, and everyone was wondering to themselves _what the fuck was that?_ I curled one arm around my stomach and shrunk back towards the wall of the train. I could feel the blush in my cheeks. I didn't know why I was embarrassed by this sort of thing. Everybody got hungry. Only, they didn't typically make such loud noises.

I got off the subway at the wrong stop and wound up having to walk a few kilometers to get back to the house. It had gotten later than I thought, so I went into the kitchen, snatched a pear and more saltines, and went to my room.

“ _Did you have fun?_ ” Yelled Mr. Markovich.

“ _Yes,_ ” I shouted back, and slammed my bedroom door shut behind me. I resumed my earlier position of being curled up in a ball under the covers with my phone inches from my face to make the call. I was surprised by the time. I guess I had stayed out later than I thought I had. It would have been nine twenty seven pm in Almaty. I called Misha’s house again. Just when I thought that nobody would answer and that it was a lost cause, his mother picked up the phone.

“Hello?” She asked.

“H-Hi! Ms. Antonova, it’s Otabek, can I talk to Misha?” I asked, all in a rush. My cheeks were probably flushed now, too. Fantastic. At least nobody could see me.

“Oh, you can call me Maria. And it’s a bit late for that, don't you think?” I did not want to call her Maria. I felt weird calling adults by their first names. It seemed so informal. Of course, the only adult friend I had was Ms. Utkin, and I wasn't super sure if I could call her a friend. I didn't really have a lot of friends, which I didn't really care about. It didn't matter how many friends you had as long as you had a few people who really understood you. I was lucky enough to have that, so I didn't care about making friend

“Yeah, I know, but I forgot to call earlier and now is the best I can do. I promised I would call him.” She sighed, and covered the speaker with something before shouting Misha’s name, and then that he should come to the phone. At least, I assume she covered the speaker. Everything was muffled. After about a minute of waiting, Misha’s voice graced my ears.

“Hi, Otabek.” He sounded tired, and a little bit afraid. “How’s Russia?”

“You’re my favorite person too,” I said, and he went silent. He didn't talk for a while, so I didn't either I felt like I had done something wrong, or thought that I had accidentally hung up. As soon as I worried that worry, I wondered how much this was going to cost. I should probably hang up now, only that was the last thing I wanted to do. But what if Misha and I wound up in a really long conversation that wound up being extremely expensive?

“I miss you,” He said softly. I smiled. “So…How do you feel? Now that you know how I feel, I mean.”

“I really wish I was at home,” I said. I wasn't thinking, just letting my consciousness come out in the form of speech. “Because I really want you to hug me right now. And because I just realized how expensive this phone call is going to be.” Misha let out a humourless laugh.

“You’re so cool,” He said.

“You’re so biased,” I said, with the same happy, gentle tone of voice.

“More like pan-ased.”

“Misha Antonov, I swear I will hang up and not call you ever again if you make another pun that bad. A-Although not really,” I said, blushing.

“How’s Russia, then? Come in, tell me the juicy details.” I stopped to cringe at him. Of course, that wasn't exactly something out of the ordinary.

“When I got here it was raining,” I said, “And the training is a lot more difficult here than in Kazakhstan. As it turns out, I’m mostly incompetent and couldn't beat a hobbyist. At anything.” I could practically see Misha’s frown and accompanying pout when he spoke next.

“Who told you that? They’re obviously wrong! You’re, like, one of the best skaters I know! Well, the best one who happens to be twelve years old,” He said.

“Your bias is showing again. Seriously, I’m barely good enough keep up with the Russian skaters, the ballet classes are super difficult, and at a ballet summer camp- A summer camp, Misha- I hardly make the cut. I can't tell if the material is really hard or if I just suck. Oh, and you’re gonna like this- I’m the only one in the ballet classes who can't do a split. You’ve seen my attempts, they’re pitiful, but when we took ballet classes together, and you would do splits, it wasn't something that everybody could do. They are not fucking around with the label ‘advanced group,’” I said, and curled in a little tighter on myself.

“Well, maybe you’re just adjusting slowly,” Misha suggested. “Not everyone is a genius who can learn shit at the speed of light.” That made me feel a little better. I guess. But I still had very little confidence in my abilities. It had been a month since I had started training in this skating program I was in, and I had yet to start moving in the way that I was supposed to. I suppose I should be grateful that I got in anyway. See, I had originally wanted to try out for a boarding school that people from all over the world attended through high school, and it basically tried to turn aspiring kids or prodigies into professional athletes. But since I hadn't been able to prepare anything good enough to get me in on time due to my shattered wist, Ms. Utkin had suggested that I apply to a different program. It was pretty much the same thing only it was exclusively for figure skating. It was like school but with ice skates, people who were more rude, and less of a tolerance for failure. I enjoyed it anyway. I loved skating. It didn't even have to involve remembering turns and spins and steps and jumps, it could have just been the kind where you skated in slow, straight lines, until you had to turn around. I felt so happy when I stepped into a rink. The actual rink part, not the little entry place and locker rooms and skate rental area. I found myself fond of the artificial coldness, even though I knew that such intense air conditioning couldn't be good for the environment. I liked watching a clean, shiny rink go from immaculate to an opaque white over time. I liked flying through the air without certainty that I would land in a way that wouldn't break me, even when I knew I was going to be fine. I wished that I could do quint jumps- something absolutely unheard of- just to keep flying a little longer. Then again, the flying didn't really end when you came down from a jump. It ended when you stepped off the ice, and friction suddenly applied to you again. But anyway.

“No, Misha, it’s not adaptation or slow learning or anything. It’s that I wasn't ready to come here. Skill wise.” Emotion wise too. This was one of the first times since I had come to Russia that I didn't feel weirdly on edge.

“Well, it doesn't matter how ready you are. Are you going to compete in Juniors this year?” He asked. I almost didn't want to respond.

“Y-Yeah, but-”

“I have no doubt that you’ll win over the entire world. At least, the people who track the junior men’s figure skating circuit.” I smiled softly at that.

“But-”

“Ah! No ass in this conversation, thank you very much!” I wondered if he was standing or sitting. If he was standing, I could see him marching around his house with every word, maybe throwing in some arm motions or the odd solute. If he was sitting, I could see him moving his free hand and maybe even both of his feet to what was coming out of his mouth as he lounged about with his body thrown all across a chair or a couch or even the kitchen counter.

“Why you gotta discriminate against asses?” I asked, “They’ve done nothing to hurt you.”

“Actually, Otabek, my ass tends to hurt me when I fall on it. So there. Nyeh,” He said, and continued to make those same nyeh nyeh nyeh sounds after he finished speaking seriously. He was probably sticking his tongue out, too, the little shit.

“That’s kind of a given, though. Cause and effect, in which you do something dangerous and you are caused pain,” I pointed out.

“Ugh, you and your logic. So cute.” If I had been flushed before making the call, then what was I now? A red apple about to be harvested? I felt like I was freezing, which was mostly because Mr. and Mrs. Markovich had an air conditioner, which they actually used quite frequently. I was appalled that the near autumnal weather wasn't cold enough for them. Of course, I had lived through winters, I had experienced the cold, I wasn't from some equatorial country, but God, I’d thought that I could at least wear shorts without getting goosebumps most days. It was summer. But that’s not the point. The point was Misha calling me cute. I wasn't a fan of the word and didn't like the way it made me feel like a cartoon character. But he seemed to really mean it. He thought my logic was cute. I would have said to him right then and there how I thought his stupid face was handsome, so there, but there was something that wasn't letting me get the words out. I just made a small grunt, or maybe you could call it a groan, and went on as if I wasn't screaming on the inside.

“T-Thanks,” I said, “But yeah. Training is a lot more rigorous. Even though I’d never even think about giving up. I did not come all the way out here and drain half my mother’s bank account to turn around and say I quit.” Misha hummed softly.

“So. Who are you staying with?”

“This old couple. Their last name is Markovich. I don't really like them,” I told him.

“Wow, Otabek dislikes somebody. Who could have ever anticipated such a thing?” He said. His voice was so full of sarcasm, it had become more sarcasm than voice, if that made any sense.

“Ha ha, very funny. You’re like the best comedian in Almaty,” I responded, with a similar amount of sarcasm in my voice. “By the way, have you ever wondered why you never hear the suffixes of words with prefixes that have negative connotations?” I had been hung up on this for ages.

“Um…What?”

“Like, how often do you hear someone say ‘canny’? Never, right? But then you hear the word ‘uncanny’ a lot, or at least more, so why don't you hear ‘canny’ as often? Like, you hear possible and impossible all the time, but that’s just because they’re more common words. More like…I don't know, I hear the word ‘inexplicable’ a lot more than I hear the word ‘explicable’, although that’s mostly just skating coaches or dance teacher getting mad at me because I suck.” Damn. I really hoped that he didn't choose to hang onto the last part of what I had said.

“I’ve literally never thought about that before,” He said, “But holy shit, you’re right.”

“It plagues my very existence. Or it would if I was more word oriented,” I said.

“Eh, you’re pretty word oriented. Have you seen your own vocabulary? I have to make up words to describe things sometimes and then you come along with twenty million synonyms that only a dictionary knows,” He said, “And it’s really cool. How are you not popular at your school again?”

“Well, for one thing, I talk to three people there on a regular basis and one of them is my homeroom teacher. The second is the kid sister of Ravil’s girlfriend, and the third is Fruiza Uzun,” I said.

“Oh, yeah, she’s that girl that you like, right?” His voice sounded a little more formal than it usually did. Less of his words were slurred and his pitch had come back down to Earth.

“Y-Yeah, I guess,” I said quietly. I became slightly more bitter again when I spoke next, “And you suck at hiding your emotions.” He laughed softly.

“Shut up, no I don't,” Misha said, “I could be plotting the destruction of the planet and you wouldn't notice.”

“Is that so?” I asked, somewhat disdainful.

“Yes.”

“What are you thinking about right now? And be honest, I’ll know if you aren't,” I said. Misha sighed softly.

“I…I don't want to be honest. It’s scary.”

“It’s fine, I have until nine thirty here,” I said. Misha took a deep breath.

“So, I, um. You already know that I like you, what else do you need explained?” He was right, I did know that. But hearing it said filled my chest with a strange, warm sensation. It wasn't far off from the way your muscles felt like they had melted when they were at the peak of their exhaustion, only it was a lot more rejuvenating. I felt happy. I threw the blanket off of my body and stretched myself out. It was a lot colder in the outside world than it was under the covers. Or maybe I just felt a lot warmer. I shivered slightly, and blushed bright red at the same time. I pulled the blanket up to my chin, and laid down with the phone next to my head.

“Nothing much. Just thermodynamics, the creation of the universe, and how not to suck at skating,” I said. I didn't like how my voice sounded all high and breathy. It was borderline nasally. I closed my eyes, and imagined that Misha was next to me on the bed. I really wanted a hug. Of course, I had wanted a hug from anyone back home since the moment I stepped on the airplane.

“Ha ha. But, like, how…do you…feel…about me?” He asked, his words coming out in a staccato manner. I wasn't quite sure myself. I loved him, but that didn't equal being in love with him. I loved my mother and my sister and sometimes my brothers, but that didn't mean I wanted to kiss their mouths and hold them and be with them all the time. It wasn't a romantic love that I felt for them. I wasn't sure about my feelings for Misha. I loved him platonically, but I’d also like to be with him all the time, and talk to him just as much. And maybe incorporate more small kisses into our lives along the way. I wasn't sure if that was what romantic love was. Maybe it was somewhere in between. Although, how brave did he have to be to ask that? I truly did admire him, and sometimes  he made me feel things that I couldn't explain, not even if I was given a million adjectives. Maybe saying that my feelings were inexplicable is the best way to explain them.

“I don't know,” I answered shakily, “I mostly associate good things with you, so you can stop worrying.” After that, the conversation veered off towards more normal subjects, like how things were in Almaty and if he was worried about high school, skating, dancing, and Misha’s giant celebrity crush on that rapper I mentioned. I didn't see what was to be desired there- The man was pretty average in all respects I could name. He wasn't the best rapper, he wasn't the best person, he wasn't that good looking. His sound mixing skills were poor at best. I honestly didn't know why Misha was so obsessed with the guy. I could probably write a better song. Then again, I was barely able to tell what was happening on a page of sheet music, so no, I could not write a better song. But that’s just in terms of musical composition. I’m fairly sure I could write lyrics better than that rapper could. And I could get into how amazingly Misha could separate the art from the artist, but after a few minutes of protesting against listening to said artist, the conversation went a different way and so I went with it. Misha could only talk to me for a good forty five minutes before his mom told him that it was time to go to sleep. He kissed the receiver goodbye, and I found myself blushing like a madman long after I hung up.

 


	14. 2011.4

2011.4

 

The next time I woke up, I was exhausted, despite having gone to sleep at a reasonable hour. Trying to remember what I dreamed about was like trying to catch smoke with my bare hands. As soon as I opened my eyes, I had forgotten about everything that had happened in the night. Funny how at one moment things like a sky made of diamonds or a stained glass meadow could be the most real thing in the world one second and then be as real as a goblin tap dancing in a tea cup on the dark side of the moon. I pulled myself away from the warmth of the bed and went downstairs to eat breakfast. Mr. Markovich was already in the kitchen, drinking black tea and reading a newspaper. He offered to cook something for me, although it wound up being mostly him instructing me on what to do and wheeling around the kitchen on my heels to make sure I didn't screw anything up. It was very stressful. The end product wasn't as bad as it could have been, though. I had made syrniki, which was a cream cheese pancake, and my God was it delicious. 

“ _ You’re good at cooking, Otabek _ ,” He told me. Mrs. Markovich walked into the kitchen just after he finished speaking.

“ _ Not really, _ ” I said. Mrs. Markovich took notice of the syrniki I had made. 

“ _ Oh, my favorite, _ ” She said, and grabbed a dirty plate from the sink. She put one of the rather dinky pancakes onto her plate and picked it up with her hands to nibble on it. She was like a human rabbit. 

“ _ You can thank Otabek for that, he made them all by himself, _ ” Mr. Markovich said, and gestured to me with his index and middle fingers. He kissed his wife on the cheek and then took a sip of his tea. 

“ _ Well then, thank you Otabek. They taste great. _ ” She was probably faking it. I didn't do a lot of things right. In fact, I could only seem to remember useless trivia that the average person probably never needed to know. I could barely remember the order in which I had to do things on the ice. I fell out of things too often in ballet. You can hide some things from your peers, but I swear to God every ballet instructor ever has the eyes of an hawk. They could all seem to tell how you were holding your weight wrong, or how your joints were positioned incorrectly. Even if your toe wasn't pointed enough. 

“ _ Oh, I had a lot of help from Mr. Markovich, _ ” I said softly. 

“ _ I keep telling you, you can call me Peter, _ ” He told me. I shook my head and took a bite of one of the syrnikis. It was burned a little bit. Mrs. Markovich waved one of her hands through the air as if she was swatting at a fly. 

“ _ Oh, he’s just shy. He’ll warm up eventually, _ ” She said, and continued to eat using her tiny rabbit bites. I wondered what she would look like as a rabbit. Probably like a rabbit corpse, considering rabbits typically don't live for seventy years. I couldn't help but think that I would never warm up to them, but I kept my thoughts to myself. The couple continued conversing over breakfast, while I milled about the kitchen and threw open every cupboard looking for food to eat for lunch. I wound up packing a beef stroganoff sandwich, a very green banana, some corn chips that looked to be about twenty years old, and a water bottle. Once that was done, I went upstairs to get dressed. I checked the weather forecast on my cell phone and it was going to be warm outside today. Well, warmer than it had been before. I could probably wear shorts today. It wasn't like I was going to be outside much anyway. After getting dressed, I went downstairs and played Tetris on my phone until it was time to leave, at which point, I grabbed the plastic shopping bag in which I had packed my lunch and shoved it into my dance bag. It was a paisley drawstring backpack that I had made when I was eight, and there was a strip of white duct tape on the middle of the bag. Otabek Altin was written in blue sharpie on that strip of duct tape. I wondered when I would have to replace that strip of duct tape, as the corners were already starting to peel off. I was amazed that the bag hadn't broken in the past four years, seeing as the strings were just pieces of green yarn that Misha had braided for me. 

With the bag slung over one shoulder and my ballet slippers poking into the small of my back, I left the house. It was cold on the walk to the above ground subway entrance, but it was still early, so that was to be expected. While I was waiting for the train to come, I stared at some graffiti on the other side of the tunnel. Someone had drawn a peace sign, a heart, and a smiley face with spray paint so large that they took up most of the wallspace, and covered a lot of other paint as well. Someone else had written FUCK in all caps across the signs, and there was someone else whose anatomically inaccurate drawing of a penis was overlapping the smiley face a little bit. Why did people feel the need to grafitti anything? I don't get what would be fun about it, aside from the exhilaration of not knowing if you were going to get caught or not. Speaking of which, I would love to get my hands on a can of spray paint. It would probably be a lot of fun. And, of course, a lot of work to be able to make the cooler graffiti, but when making a work of art, patience was necessary. 

I stared out the back of the train while it was moving. I liked watching the concrete zoom by. I got off at the right stop and found that in the half hour I had been underground, the sun had come out from behind a cloud. It was pretty sunny as I walked across the tiny lawn in front of the studio, although the wind was blowing, so it wasn't as warm as it could have been. And there was also dew from the grass soaking my nikes, which could have been avoided if I had walked on the path instead of through the grass. It would cut off a few seconds to go through the grass, though, so I couldn't say I really regretted the choice. But I had to meet up with the path at the door to the building anyway. I left slight outlines of footprints as I walked. When I got to the door, a taller, silver haired boy held the door open for me. 

“ _ Thanks _ ,” I mumbled, and walked inside. 

“ _ No problem! _ ” He chirped, and followed me in. There was a mat inside the door, and even though I walked across it, my shoes made loud squeaking noises as I walked upstairs and into the studio where the summer camp was. I went into the changing room and switched my cargo shorts with a pair of leggings that were cut off at the knee. I found it strange that there were no rules about what sort of clothes we could wear to the summer camp. Well, there were a few, but they didn't really apply to me. They were that you could only wear shirts that were a solid neutral color and movable pants. Most of my wardrobe consisted of tee shirts that fell somewhere on a gradient of black to white, about half of which had no words no them, so I was fine in that department. And then I had a bunch of darkly colored jeans and black leggings, as well as a pair of black sweatpants, so it was more likely that any given article of clothing in my suitcase would pass the rules for the camp. 

When I got back into the open studio part, I started stretching and became immediately self conscious as I realized how everyone else was so much more elastic than me. I slowly migrated towards the back wall, hiding behind everyone else as I bent over and tried to touch my feet. However, I couldn't get my fingers past the middles of my shins. I gave up after a few minutes in favor of simply hanging there. While I was all bent over, I cracked my knuckles. The noise was quite loud, and very pleasing. I even noticed one person turning to look at me. If I had been in the ballet studio in Almaty, I would have turned to look at Misha, and we would smile at each other. He would be doing a split right about now. He had figured out that if he was in a split, the teacher wouldn't bug him about stretching when she came around to observe everyone. I thought that he should stretch more than that, but his body didn't seem to be capable of having tense tendons and muscles. I wished that I was like that. 

When the day started, I proved to be just as bad as yesterday. I was still sloppy and weak where I shouldn't have been, and while I did point my toes more, I was still the one who got called out and told that I needed to fix something more than anyone else. I may have tried to hide in the back but it was quite ineffective given the instructor already had his eye on me. At least I had a lunch to eat today. I was looking forward to it, only not really. I was more looking forward to the break that came along with food. However, when the lunch break came along, I didn't get any peace and quiet. The instructor came up to me while I was making the walk from the changing room, where I had left my lunch, to the back corner of the room. 

“ _ Otabek, I need to talk to you for a minute, _ ” He said. I turned around. 

“ _ Okay, _ ” I said. 

“ _ Outside the room, _ ” He said. I nodded, a sinking feeling in my stomach. I bit the inside of my bottom lip and rolled it between my teeth while I was being lead outside. I found myself clenching my abs because I was incredibly nervous. This wasn't the first time a teacher had to bring me into the hallway to talk to me, but it was the first time a ballet instructor had done so. 

“ _ Otabek, are you aware that you’re not up to par with the rest of the students? _ ” I swallowed nervously.

“ _ Y-Yes, sir, _ ” I said softly. He didn't even need to finish talking. I already knew what he was going to say. He was going to tell me that I wasn't good enough and then send me home for the day, or ask me to sit and watch the class or something else that would just remind me of how much of a failure I was. 

“ _ To me, it’s obvious that you’ve got plenty of experience with ballet. Nobody’s denying that. However, experience does not mean that you are good at something. All of the other boys and girls in my class are talented, and they have a drive much more intense than your own. I hate doing this, but you’re just not cut out for a class this advanced. I think that you would have an easier time in the beginner’s class. Which is why you will be joining them after the break is over, _ ” He said. I felt like I was going to cry but also like it would be impossible at the moment. 

“ _ Y-Yes sir, _ ” I responded. His lips moved up slightly, as did his shoulders. 

“ _ I’m sorry, kiddo, but it is what it is. _ ” With that, he went back into the studio. I kept standing outside, feeling like I had been beaten up and left on the ground to die. The inside of my chest felt hot, and so did the area behind my eyes. Saying that I felt like shit was an understatement. I walked back into the studio and back to my corner, where I grabbed my lunch and started eating. I wanted to cry about it, I really did, but I just couldn't. I felt so guilty now. If I was bad at ballet, I couldn't have been that good at skating, which meant that it was only a matter of time before I was shown that I was not good enough to skate professionally. In fact, it would be two months. The idea of my name at the bottom of a scoreboard made the whole idea worse. I couldn't let everyone at home down, I just couldn't. So if I wasn't good at ballet, I would just have to practice more, or find a different style of dance that fit me better. I had never been great at ballet, but I had thought I was good enough. Ha. I was so petty. I could barely handle being told that I wasn't as advanced as I thought I was without thinking that maybe I should go back to using jazz or start using hip hop or tap or some other form of dance instead. I was a disappointment. 

After lunch, I was guided out of the room and to a different one that was at the other end of the building. I stared at the wood floor while the advanced class teacher talked with the beginner class teacher. When he left, she looked down at me, and then back out at the rest of the class. I kept on looking at the floor. 

“ _ Everyone, we have a new dancer joining us. Do you want to introduce yourself? _ ” She asked. 

“ _ M-My name is Otabek, _ ” I stammered. The instructor kept talking, “ _ Clean up your trash, and when you’re done with that, get in some lines for floor exercises. I don't want to see anything on this floor aside from my dancers. _ ” I went to line up with everyone else, but the instructor put one of her hands on my shoulder and spun me around before I could go anywhere. She was very tall, had a commanding presence, and held a cane in her right hand. She was sort of leaning on it, although not entirely. It was almost like she was slouching, although what kind of dancer slouched? 

“ _ My name is Ms. Baranovskaya, and you are to address me as such, _ ” She told me. I nodded, and ran off to join everyone else. I felt like my limbs were too big and like I was made of lead. If I had thought that being in a less advanced class would be a load off, I was wrong. I was even more on edge and I still felt like I was drawing attention to myself just by standing there and looking older. I just wasn't right, you know? And even though I was doing a bit better, I still felt like shit. My body was shit, after all. I was probably making it out to be a lot worse than it was, but I was scared and alone and that’s never a good combination, especially when the feeling of failure is added into the mix. I had done enough of feeling scared and alone already in my life over things that were more important than a ballet class. I really should’ve been able to calm down. But real life is never as simple as the rational voices in your head make it out to be. I felt like I was going to cry, especially when I kept falling out of things. Well, falling isn't really the right word. I was unbalanced. What made it worse was the fact that I was the only unbalanced kid in the room. Or at least, everyone else did an incredibly good job at hiding it. 

The first time I actually tripped was the worst. In the midst of a piqué arabesque, I made the error of doing a balancé back instead of forward, and I changed my momentum in a swift and jerky way that caused me to trip. I stumbled back up and stepped to the side, where I paused to breathe and actually look at the rest of the people in the room for once. I had kept my head down before, so as not to unintentionally make eye contact and draw attention to myself. But now, I noticed that one of the boys in the class looked awfully familiar. He was a little twig, with blond hair that came down to about his ears, but was cut in a way that looked like it had once been longer. He was the boy I had seen at the rink yesterday, and the same one who had called me an asshole after he knocked me over. While I watched him dance, I couldn't help but wonder if he recognized me, even though I knew he didn't. Even though we had never spoken to each other, it comforted me to know that there was someone I’d seen before. And, my God, he was an amazing ballerino. Even after I rejoined the group, I could see the way he moved was far beyond someone of his age. Then again, that was going off the assumption that he was younger than I was. He was shorter than me, after all. But anyway, the blond boy could have danced circles around everyone in the room, except for probably Ms. Baranovskaya. He was what I wanted to be some day. So maybe I was staring at him a little. Who doesn't stare at amazing things? However, I didn't expect him to stare back. So you can imagine my surprise when he did. His eyes were a similar shade of green to the color deciduous leaves turn when sunlight streams through them. They were piercing, and looked a lot more mature than the rest of him. The look in his eyes made me feel like I was running into someone from home, someone I had never met before but somehow recognized. 

Now I understood that one line in Misha’s letter. He had called me a soldier, although I was definitely the sort of soldier who died alone, cold, and miserable with blood seeping out of various wounds across his body. This kid was the type of soldier who got banquets thrown in his honor and pavilions in public parks dedicated to him years after he died. He looked bored, as if he could see that he was better than everyone else in the room, and he knew that everyone else knew it too. In fact, he wound being used as an example of what to be several times. I didn't know whether or not to be jealous or to admire him, because I was crazy jealous of his fluid movements and the way he didn't seem capable of making any type of movement look awkward. By the time the day in the studio had come to a close, I had made up my mind that I would try to talk to him. He was so goddamn talented and incredibly gorgeous, which summed up to him being intimidating. I was still tying my shoes and drafting what I was going to say in my head when he walked out the door. Oh well. There were still seventeen more days to pluck up the courage to talk to him. However, most of those days would probably be devoted to learning a routine to dance at the end of the three week summer camp. Every day I told myself to just talk to him, and that no harm could come from fulfilling the desire to be social. By the end of the week, all I knew was that his first name was Yuri. 

On Saturday, I took my dirty clothes to the laundromat. Mrs. Markovich asked if I wanted her to drive, but I took the subway instead. I wanted to be alone, even if a backpack full of clothes was exponentially heavier than I had anticipated. I was stuck dressing in some hand me down clothes that had originally been Serik’s, which meant I looked like an extra on the set of a movie made in 1995. The jeans were a whole debacle on their own, seeing as the waistband was far too large, and for the cuffs to be at my ankles, it would have to be at my solar plexus. It was also too big for that. The tee shirt I was wearing was a solid dark blue. I wondered to myself, if I was a girl, would my bra straps be showing? It wasn't like I lived a life that didn't involve being around those with breasts, and I had seen plenty of people walking around with shirt collars that exposed their bra straps. At least the shirt was long enough to cover the waistband of my pants. My underwear would probably be showing if the shirt wasn't as long as it was. At least the underwear was solid black and not some ridiculous color or pattern. Over everything, though, I had on a leather bomber jacket that didn't really do much against the cold. It also couldn't have possibly been either of my brothers’, though, because it looked older than both of them. Maybe it had belonged to our dad. 

But anyway, what I was wearing wasn't all that important. What was more important was what I wasn't wearing, and how much longer it was going to be before the second load of laundry finished drying. I sat on top of the dryer, kicking my legs back and forth. There weren't very many other people in the laundromat, so it didn't smell as much like detergent as it could have, but the place was still surrounded by the scent. I started to click my tongue against the roof of my mouth as I waited, until one of the other patrons told me to cut it out. I stopped, and then realized that I had been clicking to the beat of the song being used for the final performance in the ballet summer camp. It was from some opera. I didn't really like it all that much, although thinking about the song made me smile, because when Miss Baranovskaya played it for the first time in class, Yuri had pointed out that the pianist wasn't good at playing triples. I didn't know what a correctly played triple sounded like on a piano, or at least I didn't think so, but the way he had said it had almost made me grin while in the studio. Yuri spoke as if he were gossiping and saying something as obvious as  _ the sky is blue _ . Kind of in the way I’d heard people at school calling other people sluts and whores, but without a lot of the venom. Only, Yuri didn't seem like the type to gossip. The other kids in the beginner’s class were around ten or eleven on average, and there were also a few nine year olds, and they all talked endlessly, even during practice. Except for Yuri and I, and maybe a few other kids. The thing was, Yuri would also sit or stand away from everyone else during the breaks. Granted, he would usually be by the window, while I would be in the most secluded corner, but I thought that he seemed interesting aside from his obvious talent. Well, no. That’s not entirely true. I thought that he was talented and a loner. According to Misha, loners were often some of the most interesting people. Then again, I was a loner. Maybe I give loners a bad name. 

While Yuri was the best dancer in the class and also the most flexible, I didn't think that observing him so much was that good of an idea. It only made me feel worse about myself. If there was such a gap in between us, how would I ever catch up? I had been dancing since I was five years old, and skating since I was nine. I should have been the best dancer in the room, on account of being the oldest and having the most practice, despite the setback that had occurred due to the brief ballet hiatus in spring. Then again, I was only just finding out how bad my sports education had been at the time I most needed to be at the top of my game. I was supposed to be in Moscow this October. There wasn't enough time for mistakes to be made, at least not big ones. And that was scary. Mistakes were one of the things I did best. 

I was jolted from my thoughts by the sound of the dryer underneath me beeping. I yelped and jumped off of it, suddenly full of unneeded adrenaline. With hands that were barely shaking, I took out the dark blue load of laundry, and folded everything up before putting it into the second largest pocket of my backpack. For now, the dirty clothes were in the largest pocket, and all that still had to be washed were miscellaneous things like randomly patterned socks, flannel shirts, underwear, and the blanket I had brought from home. It wasn't a security blanket or anything, or something with a sentimental attachment. It just smelled like home. Plus, the blankets at the Markovich’s house creeped me out. They were old ass quilts that smelled like moths, and the one on my bed made me itchy. I would sometimes wake up with scratch marks on my arms. But anyway, now I was waiting on the load of white clothes. There weren't very many of them, to be honest. I was used to getting called goth, because of how I usually wore dark clothing. I did not at all fit into the gothic culture, though. I was more of an emo nerd, if we were assigning labels. When the laundry was done washing, I moved it to the dryer, and dumped all of my miscellaneous clothing into the washing machine. I put some more money into them, and sat on top of the dryer again to wait. I started kicking my legs back and forth again. The rolled up cuffs of my jeans fell down until they were around the soles of my shoes. My mind wandered, once more, back to thinking about the ballet camp. Ms. Baranovskaya was a tough teacher. She was more intense than the one for the other class. Something I found weird was that she had a cane, though. When she didn't ask Yuri to demonstrate something, she would put the cane aside and show the class what she meant herself. Maybe it was just for show. She would definitely be a lot less intimidating if she didn't carry that cane around, or if she didn't bang it on the floor to demand attention. I always jumped when she did that. It wasn't the best of ways that I could have reacted, that was for sure. I only drew attention that I didn't even want in the first place. Aside from drawing attention to myself, I couldn't help but take notice of the way Yuri was only called Yuri by Ms. Baranovskaya. According to almost everyone else, he was ‘the kid from Moscow’. 

I leaned down to roll the cuffs of my jeans back up. Now I could stare at the toes of the shoes I was wearing. There were holes in the mesh toes, although that was a given. I hadn't gotten new shoes in two years. My toes needed to poke out of the shoes, or else my feet wouldn't fit. I sighed, and stared out the wall of windows that made up the storefront. It was raining heavily outside, which meant it would be humid tomorrow. At least I would be going to the rink. I had already gone today, and I would probably keep going on the weekends until the summer camp was over. The rink visit had been good. I was tested on all of the jumps and spins I knew how to do, which was exhausting, but at least I was allowed to start working with one of the trainers from the sports program on ideas for a program to use in my first competitive season. Which, by the way, made me want to jump up and down while squealing, because I was actually fucking doing it. I was gonna be a skater! I could ignore all the hairy details surrounding birthdays and whatnot, because it was actually fucking happening. It had been 1,461 days since I started skating, and I was psyched to start actually competing. Even so, there were about a million and twelve things floating around in my head that were distracting and scary as shit. Then again, when weren't there? People think hundreds of thousands of things per day, who could be expected not to feel like they were going crazy at a given time? Or maybe I was just stressing myself out. All I could think about was skating and the ballet. I had sonnets of advice running through my head, but none of it made any sense. I wanted to take a nap. 

The last of the clothes were clean, and it felt like they were done much too fast but also incredibly slow. I found myself yawning as I unloaded the dryer for the final time. It was still raining when I left, and the fact that there was a tailor’s shop right next to the laundromat made some small part of me smile at coincidence. I had my backpack slung over my right shoulder, which I only really took notice of when I was about a block away from the laundromat. I contemplated switching it to my left shoulder or just putting on both straps. I decided to put both arms through the straps. It was better for your shoulders to not have a ten kilogram backpack on one of them all the time. It was a habit that I was trying to break. I would always pick my backpack up and sling it over my right shoulder at school. It was going to make my right shoulder a lot stronger than my left shoulder. There lied the contemplation over carrying the backpack over the left shoulder. I could put it there and have the same strength I do on the right side of my body in my left. My arms were vastly different in how strong they were. If I were to flex my right arm and show you, it would have a large muscle bulge against the skin and my shoulders would be prominent. If I were to show you my left arm in the same way, it would look pretty wimpy in comparison. It’s not like I try to make my right side stronger when I work out, it’s just that I’m right handed and do everything with that arm. I even swiped the subway card with my right hand. 

I didn't take my backpack off while I sat on the subway. It was uncomfortable, and I kept telling myself that I would do it in a minute, but then it was twenty minutes later and I was going into the Markovich’s house. 

“ _ I’m home! _ ” I shouted, and went to my room. I didn't know why my siblings thought that going to your room was a punishment. I enjoyed being alone in my room. In fact, I enjoyed most of the punishments that my parents and grandparents could give out. Like going to my room, not being allowed to use the computer or watch TV, not being allowed to go outside, walking the dogs, washing the dishes, et cetera. All of these things gave you time to think, although you were probably supposed to think about what you had done to get in such trouble that would be cause for making you do something. I had fucked some things up, like breaking things and getting into fights with Ravil. Aliya and I had almost de-handed ourselves while washing the dishes. There were most definitely blood stains on the knife sharpening granite block at my grandparents house. And maybe the dogs there had had more than their fair share of chocolate. Which was to say, they had eaten chocolate. There had been a time, before we had moved into the house we lived in now, that Ravil and I had gotten curious. We climbed out onto the fire escape and climbed up to the top of the building. We danced on the roof and had shadows that were big on the ground below. People started to notice the nine and five year olds dancing on the roof of an apartment building, though, and one of my mom’s friends called to ask where her kids were. She had been at work at the time, and said that they were at home. Her friend told her that they seemed to be on the roof of her apartment building. Mama rushed home, and came up to the roof. Only she didn't use the fire escape, she used the stairs that originated inside the building. She took the safe and logical approach. She was horrified to see us standing at the edge, looking at all the many visible things down below. She almost scared me into falling and dying. We got in trouble for that one, and the punishment was to take care of Aliya’s every need during the summer. Ravil wasn't allowed to play outside by himself, and if I ever did go outside, it would have to be with Ravil. I don't know why Mama thought that that was a good idea. Hadn't she been paying attention? We were left alone together and decided to go to the rooftop of the apartment building. If anything, we shouldn't have been allowed to be around each other, lest we come up with more stupid ideas. 

Like the time Ravil decided that he was going for a little joyride. That had been more recent. He had been fourteen at the time, and Serik was in town. It was a few days after my birthday, and Ravil finally decided to ask me what I wanted for my birthday. I told him I wanted to do something fun, and he had the idea to steal the keys to Serik’s motorcycle and go on a ride. I won't lie, it was fun, but I was also very afraid of dying. Ravil had no prior experience with driving, let alone driving a motorcycle from the nineteen forties. It was terrifying and exhilarating, although more terrifying because Ravil didn't have the common sense to think about where Serik would keep his helmet, or if he even had two. I was busy worrying over whether or not it was a good idea to go through with it. I decided that what Serik didn't know might not be able to hurt him, and convinced myself that he probably wouldn't even notice. I placed too much faith in Ravil, to say the least. He almost got us killed. It was worth it. I loved the feeling of wind on my face, even though it hurt when we were going that fast. The whole ordeal cemented the idea that motorcycles were super fucking cool, at least to me. Fun was definitely achieved that day. I enjoyed the punishment of washing the dishes for a month. It wasn't like I didn't wash them regularly anyway, though. It was just that if I didn't feel like doing it on a given day, then I didn't have to. 

Ravil’s punishment was much more severe, though. He wasn't allowed to go outside except for when he was going to school until the decade turned. I thought it was hilarious to see him spend hours and hours trying to solve a Rubik’s cube. That is, until he started working out the formulas. Then it became more of an interesting thing to watch. He was a lot less angry when he was working on the cubes. He had a fuck ton of them, too. He kept borrowing them and never giving them back, and asking for them for his birthday. He had quite the collection, one of which was an eight by eight cube. Some of them weren't even cubes, they were triangular prisms and octagonal prisms. One of them was super hard, because it functioned like a gear. When you moved one face, it would cause another one to move at the same time. I didn't know how he did some of the weird ones. I could solve the regular ones, but the ones that weren't in cube shapes, as well as the gear one, were practically impossible to me. My personal favorite was the cube that had world currencies on the sides. It had a tenge, a ruble, an American dollar, a euro, a yen, and a British pound. In fact, that was the one I had brought with me. But the money cube wasn't the only cube that didn't have the traditional colors on it. There was one that had logos, although I had the sneaking suspicion that it wasn't from Kazakhstan. 

When I went into my room, I found myself fiddling with the cube I had stolen for hours until I realized that I hadn't contacted home yet today. I called my mom, and she interrogated me again, as mothers do. I didn't really mind it. She just wanted to know if I was happy, because she loved me. I loved her too. After a while, Aliya came on the line. She started talking to me as if I was her meat diary. And I suppose I was. I tried obscenely hard to remember everything she told me. It was three pm when I finished talking to my family, and I was so tired that I just fell asleep from sitting in the same spot. When I woke up, it was one in the morning. I contemplated calling again, but decided against it. I sat and stared out the window for about an hour before going back to sleep. When I woke up for the second time that Sunday, I felt like I could run across the world. I gave no fucks about how running along the ocean floor would make me drown. I could take it. What did the ocean have on me? Billions of years and hundreds of things that could probably kill me, that’s what. Oh well. I guess I wouldn't be doing any ocean marathoning until I became Moses. Which would be happening about as soon as there was proof of the existence of anything. And if it ever did happen, I would probably be dead. I got ready to go in a weird rush, like I was on autopilot. I was on autopilot the entire day. It made skating easier. Today I picked a song. I chose an excerpt from Beethoven’s fifth, and downloaded the song onto my cell phone. I spent most of the day at the rink, and then went out with Mrs. Markovich to buy some Ace bandages. It was pretty boring, in all honesty. And on Monday, I went off to ballet camp once more. While I was still untying my shoes, Yuri walked in. He was covered in bruises. They were all over his arms, blue and yellow and black. There were a few cuts on his arms as well, although the biggest injury he seemed to have faced was a huge bruise that spanned most of the left side of his face. There was also a scab in the middle of his cheek. 

“ _ What happened to you? _ ” I asked. He jumped, and tightened his grip on the messanger bag that looked far too big in comparison to his tiny body. Yuri looked around fearfully, as if he were about to cross a street alone for the first time. 

“ _ Fell down the stairs, _ ” He mumbled, and sat down across from me. He yanked off his street shoes without untying them and pulled his ballet slippers out of his bag. 

“ _ It looks really bad. Are you okay? _ ” He jerked his head up and glared at me. 

“ _ Why do you give a fuck? _ ” He asked. He pulled his knees into his chest, and took off the black windbreaker he was wearing. I shrugged. 

“ _ Well, you fell down the stairs, for one thing. _ ” He looked angry. His unbruised cheek had turned red. 

“ _ You don't know me! _ ” He said, louder. It was a borderline shout. He stood up and stomped off to the changing room. I sighed inwardly. I had thought that the first time I talked to him I would at least be a little bit interesting, but all I had done was make him mad. That was okay, I guess. I made a lot of people mad simply by existing, and I probably didn't even know all of them. I was part of overpopulation and all, and there were always going to be people pissed about that. Moop.

“ _ Nobody knows anybody, _ ” I mumbled, and got up. I went into the changing room, switched clothes, and went back into the studio. Things were pretty normal after that. We danced. I worked on the pieces that were going to be performed at the end of the third week of summer camp. I had a part in the group one and a solo piece, which I didn't think I deserved. Nobody would be coming to watch me anyway. This performance was just for the parents, and I had a severe doubt that my mom would fly to Saint Petersburg for anything less than me breaking a bone or becoming paralyzed from the waist down or getting struck by lightning or something. During the lunch break, everything was all fine and dandy. I sat in my corner, Yuri sat by the windows, and everyone else separated off into their own groups. I couldn't stop staring at Yuri’s bruises. They had to hurt like hell. I hoped that they didn't limit his movement in any way. I wanted him to be okay, I realized, which was really weird. I had had people that I wanted to know better before, but I wanted to be Yuri’s friend. The feeling was weird. 

After lunch, the class resumed as it had before, only now I was in even less of a mood to dance after eating. My limbs felt like they had huge iron weights strapped to them, and I felt the need to let my arms fall to my sides. I was in a floppy mood. At least, I was until I heard someone shout,  _ I’m not a freak! _ at the top of their lungs. At that point, I took my eyes off of the floor in front of me and in the direction of the noise. It was Yuri. He was holding his fists at his sides and glaring at a taller boy. Ms. Baranovskaya looked up from where she was talking to a little girl about pointe shoes while she danced. The boy laughed, and started talking to someone again. 

“ _ Yeah, Plisetsky, why do you think you're- _ ” At that point, Yuri lunged at him and tackled him to the ground. Ms. Baranovskaya ran to the other side of the room and hauled him off of the other boy. It wasn't before he was able to get a good few hits in, though. I found that I had closed some of the distance between myself and the minor fight, although so had everyone else. My heart was pounding, and I wasn't quite sure why. It definitely wasn't because I was working hard. Not that I  _ wasn't  _ working hard. I guess I was just afraid. Ms. Baranovskaya shooed everyone else away while she went to go yell at the two of them in the corner. That was my lunch corner. It was very different from the corner I danced in, because it was on the opposite side of the studio. Eventually, my heartbeat went back to normal and I was able to finish my solo. Yuri bumped into me again while we were walking down the stairs on the way out of the building. 

“ _ Are you okay? _ ” I asked him. He stopped, a few steps below me, and turned around. He looked like he was trying not to smile. He held out a fist, showing how his knuckles were still a little red, and one of them looked like it had a brush burn. I made a thumbs up, and he turned back around. He ran down the stairs and out the door. I smiled after him, and felt like an idiot in the process. Who smiles at people they’ve just met?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, y'all. back at it again with another installment. there's a part where the word 'moop' occurs. that was written by my good friend and editor (you're the literal best, dude). the word moop was written by her so you can shower her with praise in the comments. (and maybe comment on the chapter too while you're at it. or don't if that sounds too arrogant or rude or something.) 
> 
> if you want, you can check out my tumblr. i'm @paraduxkys.


	15. 2012.1

2012

 

In my right hand, I held my cell phone. In my left, I held the year old packing list that Mama had made for me. She had written the things I would need to pack on a piece of yellow paper and then ripped it off of the tablet. I had always hated that sort of paper. A lot of the other kids at school had those yellow pads of paper, and you could never properly erase anything from them. There would always be a mark from the eraser left on the page. But this sheet would never have to face that problem. Mama had written down the list of clothing items as she did her lists for grocery shopping. The words stood out, as they had been written with a black gel pen. There were a few smears here and there, and the page was crinkled beyond repair. It had been on the floor under my nightstand until I had found it in the middle of March and taped it to the wall next to the window in my room. And that was where it had been until about five minutes ago, when I took extra care to peel the tape off the wall, so as not to tear off any paint. I folded the tape down over the other side of the paper, and held it in my hand while texting my mother that everything was going to be okay. That said, I had only been on a few airplanes before and had a tendency to spend my flights asleep or reading. I didn't tell her that, though. She sent me a goodnight text, even though it was still only 8:10 pm in Saint Petersburg. It would have been eleven ten back in Almaty, though. I typed out ‘Goodnight, Mama. Sweet dreams. I love you.’ and then attempted to stuff my phone into the back pocket of my jeans. I missed on the first try, and slid my phone along my rear before bringing it back up and slipping it into the pocket. I bent down and started sifting through the pile of clothes in the middle of my bedroom floor. Apparently, I had brought twenty eight pairs of socks with me. What was weirder, I had twenty eight pairs of socks to bring. I must’ve thought the same thing last year. Earlier today, I had washed all my clothes at the laundromat, because Mr. and Mrs. Markovich didn't have a washing machine. However, it did have two sinks in the kitchen, on account of them being Orthodox Jews. I was fascinated by the second sink during the first few nights of my stay with them, but soon lost interest. Sinks aren't inherently attention attracting things, after all.

I folded and packed all of my clothes, and the rest of my little belongings, except for my letter from America. I got up from the floor, and sat on the edge of my bed. I leaned back, and then pulled my knees into my chest. I rolled to the left and then stretched out until I was laying on my stomach. I would put my cell phone in my backpack tomorrow, after I texted Misha some. He wasn't asleep, not yet. Apparently, the older you got, the less hours of sleep you got per night. I wasn't looking forward to that. I was already exhausted as things were. Even though it would bite me in the ass tomorrow, now was the time to talk to Misha. We were going to text each other until one of us fell asleep or the clock hit four am in Saint Petersburg. That was when I had to be awake to go to the airport. See, back in November, I got a letter from America. Or rather, a city in America called Chicago.

In Chicago, there’s this school that’s similar to a lot of other schools in America. Students go to classes in the mornings, and learn about things like math and history and grammar, and take a class in another language. But then, in the afternoons, they go to classes where they really flourish. Say some kid is great at singing, or writing, or they can dance like nobody’s business. That’s what they’ll do for the next few hours until the school day ends. This school, the one that sent me the letter that makes me want to weep from joy every time I look at it, is quite similar to these arts schools. Only it’s for sports. Swap the singing for football, writing for hockey, and dancing for figure skating, and there you have it. They were a boarding school that accepted students from around the world, and I was lucky enough to be one of those students. Or rather, I was lucky enough to have competed in the Junior Grand Prix Finals of the 2011 to 2012 competitive season. I was assigned the qualifying events located in Los Angeles and Toronto. I didn't do all that well, but apparently I did well enough to catch the eye of some recruiter for the athletic equivalent of a performing arts school. I did, after all, wind up with a bronze medal around my neck in Los Angeles. It had been a total fluke, what with me deciding to raise the difficulty of half of my jumps while I was jumping into them. It was almost very bad. Thankfully, things went very well. And I was going to America to train for the next four years thanks to my crappy spur-of-the-moment decision making. I was on the young side, but I would be fourteen in October, so it didn't really matter, now, did it? That was how young high schools started in America, I had found out. So Misha and I would be going into high school at the same time.

I could hardly believe that I was invited to go to this school. I wondered if it was a dream half the time, and if it was, I didn't want to wake up. I was going to stand a chance at becoming a pro skater, and not just be some hobbyist who thought he could make it in the big leagues. I wound up being forced to talk to some of the people I was competing against, and there were a few who were quite obnoxious. There was this one guy who started talking to me the day before we were supposed to compete. His name was Jean-Jacques Leroy and he was from Saskatoon, but lived in Vancouver. He had talked about a lot of things, and I hadn't listened to half of them. I wasn't sure whether I was being a petty and introverted little shit or whether Jean-Jacques, or JJ, as he insisted I call him, was too annoying for me to listen to. He may have been fourteen at the time we met, but you couldn't convince me he was older than the age of six. Maybe he was, and was just impossibly tall. At least his eyes were blue. I liked blue eyes, but green eyes were the most beautiful. Eyes in general were great. All eyes except brown eyes, that is. Eyes like mine sucked. You have people like Misha, or Yuri, or JJ, and they all have these exquisite eyes that can't be explained by even the most flowery and pretentious of metaphors and then there’s me, with my eyes so dark they were practically black. Sometimes, I wish I had bright eyes. But then I might not have black hair. And I like my hair, at least more than the average person likes their own hair. I thought it looked somewhat nice. But I wasn't beautiful, not by a long shot. I was physically ugly. I looked like a troll doing the same things that made other people look ethereal. And no matter how hard I worked, I still wasn't something you wanted to look at. I looked at other people my age when I was skating or in a dance class, and none of them were as awkward as me. They all looked perfect. Maybe I was just a failure, and a complete waste of time and money.

My cell phone buzzed in my hand, and I found myself jumping slightly. With shaking hands, I reached out of the bed to turn off the lamp and then burrowed into the comforters. I opened the text message that had arrived. It was from Misha. He had gotten his own cell phone for his fifteenth birthday. I had told him that he was such a rich kid I was surprised he hadn't been given one sooner. He told me to shut the fuck up, because I was off training in another country, and that I was going to be the wealthy one instead of him. He still had this stupid faith that I was going to be the best skater there ever was. It wasn't likely, especially when there were people like Viktor Nikiforov, Christophe Giacometti, and Stephane Lambiel out there, dominating the fuck out of everything they did. They scared me. Maybe I would chill in the Junior division for a while until I was old and experienced enough to compete against those guys. They were the big shits, and I was merely a speck of dust. Both metaphorically and literally. But existentialism wasn't the best path to take when when I was talking to Misha. He wasn't a fan of my nihilistic outlook on life. His text read:

 

**hows the middle of the night up north?**

**Миша • 10:09**

 

Same as every other middle of the night, I guess. And there should be no ‘up’ before north. Saint Petersburg is at a lower altitude than Almaty, if that’s what you’re going by, but you’re probably going by the way they look on a map. In which case, it’s just north. There is no up.

Me • 10:09

 

**its an expression. how is your middle of the night?**

**Миша • 10:10**

 

Six of my socks have escaped me and have formed a cult in the land of Lost Socks. Send help, word on the street is, they’re planning a coup.

Me • 10:10.

 

**lol. have i ever told you how sweet you are?**

**Миша** • **10:10**

 

Only every time you’re so overcome by emotion that you have to let another description of me pass your lips.

Me • 10:10

 

**what can i say except youre awesome**

**Миша** • **10:10**

 

Bitch, please.

Me • 10:10

 

**bitch, yeah.**

**Миша** • **10:11**

 

**…beka, they say absence makes the heart grow fonder. it absofuckinglutely does. i miss you. i want to hug you, and kiss your forehead.**

**Миша** • **10:12**

 

How indecent of you. Hugging, before marriage? What have we come to?

Me • 10:12

 

**the levels of other couples.**

**Миша** • **10:12**

 

We are not a couple.

Me • 10:12

 

**we could be.**

**Миша** • **10:12**

 

Shut up, I jsut wanted to talk to you.

Me • 10:13

 

**what is up, my brother from another mother?**

**Миша** • **10:13**

 

Not me. I’m north.

Me • 10:13

 

**…**

**Миша** • **10:13**

 

**really?**

**Миша** • **10:13**

 

Yes.

Me • 10:13

 

**shut up.**

**Миша** • **10:14**

 

My, how the tables have turned.

Me • 10:14

 

So, I’m going to Chicago, and apparently they have really weird pizza there.

Me • 10:14

 

**like how werid?**

**Миша** • **10:14**

 

Nice spelling.

Me • 10:14

 

**dick**

**Миша** • **10:14**

 

Look at this shit.

Me • 10:15

 

This is pizza in Chicago.

Me • 10:15

 

I am intrigued and afraid.

Me • 10:15

 

**what**

**Миша** • **10:15**

 

**the fuck**

**Миша** • **10:15**

 

**is this monstrosity?**

**Миша** • **10:15**

 

I know, right? It’s so tall, and the crust is massive.

Me • 10:16

 

**all i know is that that doesn't look like pizza**

**Миша** • **10:16**

 

I’ll be on the lookout for pizza warlocks.

Me • 10:16

 

**im looking chicago up and what you should be looking out for is the weather. it seems very cold and wet.**

**Миша** • **10:16**

 

**and also really windy. in america, they call it the windy city.**

**Миша** • **10:16**

 

I know. I did my own research as soon as i got my letter.

Me • 10:17

 

Hence the pizza.

Me • 10:17

 

Chicago is also 12 hours behind Almaty.

Me • 10:17

 

This’ll be fun.

Me • 10:17

 

**T-T**

**Миша** • **10:17**

 

**i miss u already**

**Миша** • **10:17**

 

Chill out, we can still talk to each other. It’ll just be a bit more difficult.

Me • 10:18

 

We kept on texting for a while, although it was mostly sharing gossip about what had happened in our respective cities. I mean, I got a lot of Misha’s rich boy gossip anyway, and he got a lot of my skating gossip, but it was nice to talk to each other. I was afraid that with the twelve hour time difference, there would be next to no talking to each other. That was the opposite of what I wanted. He was interesting, and creative, and so cool. Unfortunately, I don't remember when I said goodbye. Or if I said goodbye. One minute I was tapping away at my keyboard, blinking and yawning, and the next, I was being woken up by Mrs. Markovich.

“ _Get up, Beka,_ ” She kept saying, in a hushed voice.

“ _I’m awake,_ ” I responded, with my eyes still closed.

“ _Are you going to stay awake?_ ” She challenged. Sometimes, I would wake up and then fall back asleep because I had spent the night texting.

“ _Yeah, yeah, give me a minute,_ ” I said, and peeled back the covers. The room outside the quilt was cold, even though I was wearing jeans. I sat up and stretched my arms above my head, then reached to the side to turn on the lamp. Mrs. Markovich turned and started to walk towards the door. When she was in the doorway, she looked over her shoulder.

“ _Breakfast will be ready soon, so if you want it hot, be downstairs in five minutes,_ ” She said. I nodded, and she left. I had slept with my phone in my hand. I turned it on. It was at 32% battery and I had seven unanswered texts from Misha, five of which were asking if I was asleep. The sixth was affirming it, and the seventh just about made my heart melt. It read: **I love you. Goodnight, sleep tight, and don't let the bedbugs bite.** In fact, I couldn't stop reading it. I read the message over and over. I couldn't keep the smile off my face. It was really quite pathetic that twelve words could make me feel all gooey inside, but I didn't care all that much right now. Nobody ever told me that they loved me before I went to sleep, as if they were making some sort of promise that they would still love me even if I died before I woke. I didn't deserve to be friends with someone like him. He was the literal best.

I rolled out of bed and plodded down the stairs, taking heavy steps. I slouched over the breakfast bar with my eyes closed and listened to the spouses Markovich have their little morning conversation. Or rather, morning argument. Mrs. Markovich was insisting that trebuchet was spelled trebuché, while Mr. Markovich was saying it was spelled trebushet. I would have told them that they were both wrong had most of my energy not been devoted to keeping my eyes open. I ate slowly, rolling every bite over my tongue before swallowing it. My body took its time waking up, with muscles slowly engaging instead of aching and joints beginning to spring to life. They felt too watery, until they cracked. By the time I was saying goodbye to Mr. and Mrs. Markovich at the airport, I was awake. And it was only five in the morning. I decided to buy some coffee. I had never had coffee before. I had heard that it tasted bad and that you could get addicted to it. I didn't know how it was people could get addicted to something that tasted bad. It just didn't make sense to me. Then again, Ravil had this weird thing going on with cough syrup. He said he hated it but he would sure would drink a lot of it, at least during the winter. I had a theory that it wasn't the stuff he liked, but rather the not being sick. I was the opposite. I hated taking medicine, because of the way it tasted. I would be fine. Then again, there was this one time that Aliya had a cough so bad her throat went raw and she started coughing up blood. It was accompanied by a fever and nausea, which I later caught. It had been awful, but what can I say about how bad it was? I didn't cough up any blood. I just threw up a lot. It was sick that I was glad to loose the weight.

With my luggage checked, I wandered around the area of the airport near my gate. I had my backpack slung over my left shoulder, and I was plucking at the hair tie around my wrist. I kept wandering, until I found a little coffee shop. I ordered a caramel latte and went back to waiting by the gate. The plane would start boarding in forty five minutes. I sighed, and pulled out my smartphone. There was going to be a four hour layover in Bristol, so at least there would be time to find an outlet between Bristol and Chicago. I was more worried about time zones than time spent in one place, though. When I would land in Chicago, it be six post meridian. Chicago time. So, in other words, the day was going to be around twelve hours long. For me, anyway. I took a sip of my latte, and winced at the taste. It was putrid, even with the caramel. I kept drinking it. I wanted to stay awake, after all. Airplanes tired me out. I didn't know why. I mean, it made absolutely no sense. All you did was just sit there for hours.

After finishing my latte, I took the cup to a trash can and threw it out. While I walked back to the place I had been waiting, I pulled the hair tie off of my wrist and brought it up to the back of my head. I made a small ponytail, even though it didn't do much good. I was mostly just excited about the fact that my hair was long enough to put into a ponytail. Then again, I hadn't cut it in quite some time, so why wouldn't it be long? Mama kept saying that I had started to look like Ravil, which had annoyed me until he got his hair cut in a mullet. At that point, I lost all respect that I had previously had for his hair. It hadn't been much, but now it was nothing. So he could take that.

I pulled a book out of my backpack and opened it up to where I had dog eared one of the pages. I read until it was time to get on the plane. I had a window seat. I smiled at that, and texted Mama and Misha goodbye.

 

Mom, I’m on the plane.

Me • 6:32

 

**Text me when you get there. Love you! Have a safe flight!**

**Мама** • **6:32**

 

I love you too.

Me • 6:32

**I love you! I’m gonna miss you so much! Bye!**

**Миша** • **6:35**

 

I sent Misha a selfie.

 

**Scandalous. xox**

**Миша** • **6:35**

 

Shut up, idiot. The plane is going to take off soon and I need to put my phone into airplane mode.

Me • 6:35

 

***virtual hugs* i know. i wish you could stay in almaty.**

**Миша** • **6:35**

 

That had me blushing.

 

I do too. I’ll send you pictures of the pizza abomination.

Me • 6:35

 

**You better! I’m looking forward to that!**

**Миша** • **6:36**

 

It’s time for me to go. Goodbye.

Me • 6:36

 

**< 3 Do svidaniya <3**

**Миша** • **6:36**

 

He was going to make my heart explode. Seriously, what did I do that endeared him to me so much? I put my phone into airplane mode and shoved it into the pocket of my hoodie. I didn't like the way the stomach of the hoodie curved out so much from my actual stomach. It made me look like I was fat. I turned my face to the window, and stared at the runway. I closed my eyes. I wished that Misha was sitting next to me instead of the middle aged person to my left. I missed him. The last time I had seen him in person had been just short of a year ago. The last time I had been hugged had also been just short of a year ago. I missed being hugged, and the casual banter that went on with Ravil. I missed Aliya, too. She was my favorite sibling, although that didn't say much, seeing as Ravil was a dick and Serik didn't live in Almaty anymore. Then again, neither did I.

Another reason I was excited to go to America was the money. One American dollar was worth three hundred times as much as one tenge, and I intended to bring back a ton of money. I was kind of bothered by the fact that American money was all green, though. What must it be like, to see signs that say things are only worth a dollar, or ten dollars, or something like that. Those numbers were so low, at least for things that you had to buy. I had finally hit a growth spurt, and I had to buy a lot of new clothes, and most of the things I had to buy had prices that were something like two thousand rubles. Imagine buying something for only twenty dollars. It sounded fake, but whatever. America wasn't a fictional country in the most likely scenario, and life was good there. Or so I had been told. They were rich in America, rich and fat and stupid. Of course, that was a stereotype. Not everyone was all of those things. Given that the stereotype was also that Americans were aryan sticks, neither could be true, and the conclusion was that stereotypes were bullshit. Of course, who didn't know that?

I wound up sleeping for most of the flight. I probably looked like I wanted to kill someone by the time I got to Bristol and went through border control. Every time I did, I wanted to sarcastically tell the officer that I wasn't a terrorist, I swear, and then give a dark smile. Of course, that would be one of the stupidest things one could ever do in an airport, especially an American one. It would be funny, though. Maybe I would be dumb enough to actually do it later on in life. Although I hoped not. I didn't want to go to airplane jail. After being free to roam the Bristol airport, I went to the bathroom. I refused to pee on an airplane. While I was washing my hands, I looked at my own face in the mirror. My hair looked disgusting, and there were bags under my eyes. With wet hands, I took my hair out of its ponytail and tried to smooth it down. After realizing that anything other than a shower would be futile, I put my hair back up and left the bathroom. I found my gate, and sat next to an outlet so that I could charge my phone while I waited for the four hours to pass. I texted Misha for a while, completely red faced for most of it. How could he just type what was on his mind? What kind of confidence did he have that he could just say that he loved me without his brain deciding that it was a terrible idea and that I didn't love him back? Which was totally untrue, by the way. Eventually, though, he had to leave and go eat dinner. When he said goodbye, I was left to stare blankly into space and feel like the luckiest guy alive. And feel like I was dying of starvation.

I put my phone and charger into my backpack and made my way to a place where salads were sold. It felt like the lettuce was a century old. In my limited experience, airport food was never as good as food that you could make in your own house. My parents and grandparents made the best food in the world. Although that was just my bias talking. Misha’s parents could cook too. I just liked my family’s sense of food better than his. After finishing my crappy little salad, I went back to the place where I had been sitting before, only to find that someone else had taken the seat. I frowned at them. Then again, I was frowning at everyone. Misha had told me that I had a serious case of resting bitch face. I smiled plenty, I thought. And besides, there was nothing wrong with someone who wasn't constantly smiling. He did love me, after all. Holy shit, he loved me. I cringed at how boy obsessed I sounded.

I spent the rest of the layover staring at people, and then when I got on the plane, I texted my mom and Misha once more to tell them that I was getting on the plane. Mama answered, and asked me how my flight was. I told her that my ears had yet to pop and that I was tired. She quizzed me on what I was going to do when I got off the plane in America. I tried to answer her questions in English, but I was still astoundingly bad, so I switched back to Kazakh. I was going to find the people I would be staying with for the rest of the summer. They were another family whose son went to the school in Chicago. He wasn't boarding, though, like I would be. He had family in the Windy City. His name was Leo, and as it turned out, we had actually competed together in Canada. I hadn't spoken to him, though. However, we had Skyped each other a few times. It had been pretty useless, seeing as he spoke too fast and had a different accent than the English teacher at school, so I had a hard time understanding him. And I must’ve been near impossible to understand. I was too nervous that I would screw it all up or say something offensive. I was still in the phase of language learning where three quarters of what I heard was just sound and the other quarter held meaning. And for things I did understand, I had to mentally translate three words behind what was being said, and switch around the grammar, and it was all a big mess. At least I understood the Latin alphabet. There were some weird letters, like _Q_ and and _V_. What the hell was up with them? They were shaped really weirdly. But that wasn't the point. I had to find Leo and his family when I got to Chicago. Which would be happening in roughly ten hours, meaning I would be spending the plane flight frantically practicing my English and going over the Latin alphabet.

And that was how I spent the flight. Well, aside from the parts where the plane turned and I internally panicked, or the other internal panicking that happened when the plane started to fly over the ocean. If the plane crashed, there was danger of drowning. And that was even scarier than crashing. When the plane touched down in Chicago, I was afraid that I was shaking. I was sitting up as straight as possible and kneading my bottom lip with my teeth as I waited to get up. I ran my thumb over the screen of my phone in my pocket, and was annoyed at the fact that I couldn't stop my left leg from bouncing up and down. _Hello, my name is Otabek Altin and I’m afraid that I will be a not speaking potato in America because I speak English bad._ Even when I said it in my head I sounded like an idiot. Maybe sardonic wasn't the way to go when coming into a country where my native language wasn't the one that was most commonly spoken. It was going to be a mess. What if I wanted to make a sarcastic quip but I didn't know all the words? Or worse, what if I needed to do something important and school related but it was at a more complex level of English than the one I knew? I took a deep breath. At least I probably wasn't going to die.

I got off the plane when I was allowed to, and spent about an hour and a half waiting in lines before I was free to claim my luggage and leave the airport. It was very stressful. The signs were vague and confusing and on top of all that, hard to understand. Maybe it was me being bad at English, or maybe the signs didn't do their jobs very well. Maybe both. As much as I would have liked to blame the signs, it was me that didn't know what was going on. So I went about the drill, finding my suitcases and wandering about until I found the people I was supposed to find. It was a lot easier this time than when I had gone to Russia, because Leo was standing with his family and holding up a sign with my name on it. And they hadn't written it in Latin text. That was nice. I mean, the first thing I learned how to write was my own name, and it wasn't all that different, but it was a relief to see something that looked familiar. Everything after that passed in a blur. It was like I was some third party, watching my life play out from someone else’s body. I didn't even feel like I was talking.

“ _Hi!_ ” Leo said, when I walked up to them.

“ _I am Otabek,_ ” I said. I cringed at how my voice sounded like a baby who had just learned to talk.

“ _Well, that is who we’af waitslgh for. Nah, I’m sdugfka, I icufles akjghafha you from when we aljg in Canada,_ ” He said, “ _Welcome to Chicago!_ ” I nodded, somewhat confused.

“ _You’zj got your bags, so can we get going?_ ” His older female companion asked. She wasn't old enough to be his mother, or older sister. She looked to be maybe a year older than me at the most.

“ _Oh! Right, this is Sanchia. She is my cousin_ ,” Leo explained, gesturing to the woman. She pulled her lips into her mouth, gave a sharp smile, and waved with one hand.

“ _Sanchia De La Iglesia_ ,” She said, and offered a hand. I shook it. She had a nice handshake. Some people will give you a handshake that’s limp and weak and they might as well be giving you a high five, but Sanchia had a firm grip. I faked a smile at her and dropped my hand. Oh no, what if I had given a lame ass handshake?

“ _Let’s go_ ,” She said, “ _Akfx can talk in the car_.” Leo smiled at me, and offered his own hand to be shook. I gave his hand a shake. He had a weak ass handshake. I followed them to their car, and listened to their banter. I understood some of it. From what I heard, they were debating silkworms. I didn't know why silkworms needed to be argued about, but it seemed like they did.

“ _Look at this beautiful alhealghsf_!” She shouted, as we approached a shiny black car that looked old. Leo rolled his eyes. Sanchia opened up the trunk.

“ _No one cares gzqwx your dumb car_ ,” He said, as if he had said it a thousand times.

“ _I’m cdfvdzaf that you think that way_ ,” She snapped, “ _Help me jhzx the suitcases_.” I wanted to put them in the trunk myself, but Sanchia and Leo insisted that they help me out. I didn't need help lifting a couple of suitcases.

“Y _ou must be tired_ ” That was what they said when I told them I wanted to help. They were right, I was exhausted, my ears felt like they were about to explode, and I could hear it when I blinked. But that didn't mean my muscles had quit working. I still wound up sitting with Leo in the back seat of the car. He kept talking to me about skating, and about the school we were going to. He said that he was really excited but also scared because he had never been away from home before. Leo was from Denver. I was able to learn a lot about him, although he wanted to know a lot about me too. He asked what city I was from, if I had siblings and pets, and what were their names and how old were they, did I like books, blah blah blah. He did ask me what my Hogwarts house was at one point, which peaked my interest.

“S _lytherin,_ ” I said instantly. He gasped.

“ _I’m a Gryffindor! Wait, who is your favorite person in Harry Potter?_ ” I didn't like that he was talking to me like I was a toddler. But then again, I probably sounded like one.

“ _Bellatrix or Molly Weasley,_ ” I responded. His eyebrows pinched together on his forehead.

“ _Bellatrix? Why?_ ”

“ _Because she is not boring_.” Leo laughed.

“T _rue._ ” We eventually came to an apartment building that looked too old to have been built any time in the last century. Their apartment was on the sixth floor, and there were a lot of people inside. They must have been speaking at a really high level of English, because half of the words they said, I didn't understand. I was introduced to Leo’s family members. He had two cousins other than Sanchia, both of which were younger. Their names were Carmen and Jimmy. His aunt and uncle were named Damien and Opal, and refused to listen to me when I called them Mr. and Mrs. De La Iglesia. The first few weeks of living with them were weird, to say the least. I shared a room with Leo, and he liked to blast his music from his laptop. I wasn't really big on the music scene back Kazakhstan, but what he was listening to, a musical called Wicked, was actually pretty good, even if I didn't understand most of it. He didn't care that I would suddenly lose my ability to speak English at random times. He actually wanted to learn some Russian himself, so it was a good thing I was here. He told me that his family was multilingual, and if I ever heard something I didn't really understand, it was because it was in English or Spanish, or a combination of the two. I took that to mean that there was yet another language that I would have to learn. He did help me out a lot with learning English, though, which I was glad about.

There was something else I would never get the hang of, though. The De La Iglesia family was weird in the way they ate breakfast, something I discovered shortly after my first shower in Chicago. And let me say, I was thankful that Leo’s bedroom had a bathroom attached to it. The door didn't have a lock, which I thought was stupid, although that was a secondary concern to the fear of someone walking in while I took my military shower. I wound up shedding a lot of hair, which I collected and threw away afterwards. I was lucky my hair was so thick; otherwise I’d be bald by now. But anyway, I finished up the shower and got dressed when I came out. I thought that I should brush my hair or something, given how long it had been since the last time I had been to a hair salon, but I hadn't thought to bring my own comb with my from home, because I didn't think I would need one. And I hadn't bought one in Russia, because I hadn't needed one for most of the time I spent there. I had been using my fingers to comb my hair as of late. I applied the change of clothes that I had brought into the bathroom, and carried the dirty ones out into the room and put them in the largest pocket of my backpack. After that, I walked out into the biggest room of the apartment.

Leo’s bedroom door came out into the area with the couch and the TV and all that jazz, but it wasn't that far away from the kitchen, which seemed to be the center of activity this morning. The various family members were taking things out of cupboards and the fridge and setting them all out on the table. Leo and Sanchia weren't doing very much to help out, though. They were sitting on the counter next to the sink. Sanchia was drinking coffee, while Leo was talking at the speed of light in a language I couldn't understand. I couldn't even tell if it was English or Spanish. And he wasn't even the only person talking like that. I slowly approached the kitchen, feeling out of place in my jeans and heavy cable knit sweater. Yeah, it was early June, but I didn't know how cold it was going to be today. And there was a voice in my head telling me that I should just check the weather instead of taking the experimental wardrobe path, but I paid it no heed.

“ _H-Hello,_ ” I said softly. I went unnoticed. I kept walking towards the kitchen.

“ _Because Wicked is the xeqwcgh sdkj!_ ” Leo shouted. He was ignored as well. He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket, presumably his own, and about a minute later, one of the songs from Wicked was playing. I liked it. I didn't understand it, but I liked it. The accompaniment was nice.

“ _Loxe up!_ ” whined Carmen. She flipped her dark hair over one shoulder and pulled a bagel off of the table. By now, the others had stopped pulling things from the cupboards and started eating.

“G _ood day,_ ” I said, a little louder. Nobody noticed me. I gave up on trying to attract attention to myself and darted into the kitchen, where I grabbed a strawberry out of a bowl and then ran backwards to the living room area of the apartment as fast as I could. Sanchia shot me a smile, and gave a small laugh when I tripped and fell over backwards onto the couch. I blushed, and stared at one of the red stripes on the rug. I pulled the strawberry up to my mouth, and took a little bite. I kept nibbling at it until the only thing left was the leafy top. I kept holding that in my hand as I waited for an opportunity to take it to the nearest trash receptacle. However, I was invited to sit with everyone else instead of being lonely on the couch. Or rather, looking lonely. Loneliness had sort of stopped happening for me a while ago. My mom loved me now, and that was enough. Although I suppose you can say that missing home is included in loneliness.

They talked for a while, mostly about themselves and each other’s lives and music. Jimmy knew how to play the ukelele, and so the room was entertained in song. Leo and Sanchia were very good singers. They did most of the entertaining in song. After the breakfast ordeal had finished up and there was a significant amount of cereal on the floor, everyone slowly migrated away. I went back to the bedroom. I sat on the floor below the window and texted home. Aliya decided to bitch to me about money. And if there was anyone who who was worse at understanding financial issues than me, it was Aliya. Mama kept telling us that everything was okay. No, it wasn't. Nothing was ever okay, and while stressing about something you couldn't help wasn't exactly a good thing, it would at least let us know what to be afraid of. I was afraid that I would make my family poor and then they wouldn't be able to make their own happiness. I wanted Ravil to be able to go to college if he wanted to. Of course, I knew that life was getting better for my family. Serik had a job now, something to do with the law, and Mama had settled into a good rut of semi-success. We were probably fine. The thing was, people who were fine always paid their bills, and they had more than one pair of shoes. But people who weren't fine didn't have a child living on the other side of the world. I was confused about everything to do with money and how my mother handled it. And you can bet your ass that Aliya was doubly, if not triply perplexed.

After Aliya had to say goodnight, I moved to my bed. I laid there until I got asked if I wanted to go skating with Leo. I did. I always did. That calmed me down a little, but my favorite part of the day was when we went to a pizza restaurant and got a deep dish pizza. Apparently the monster pizza went by many aliases. As soon as I got a slice in front of me, I took a picture of it and sent it to Misha.

 

**gucci**

**Миша • 1:40**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit 28/7: i realized that i said jj was from Saskatchewan instead of Saskatoon, so now that's changed.


	16. 2013.1

2013

Chicago

 

Headphones were probably my favorite invention ever. They were absolutely fucking brilliant. You didn't even have to be listening to music to make people not talk to you. Until I got my first pair of headphones, which were purchased from a gas station in eastern Chicago, I had only been able to listen to whatever was on the radio or what other people were playing. I could also play music that I liked when the house was empty, but that hardly ever happened and the last time I listened to music I got to chose was when Misha was introducing me to his celebrity crush. I hated only 87 percent of his songs, I decided, after listening to more of them. Maybe he was okay. I also started listening to a lot more of my own music. I used the YouTube application to listen to program music, even though I didn't know if I was even competing this season, and that wound up with me finding the lovely gem that is Lindsey Stirling. I suppose you could say she introduced me to the American songbook. I had first started listening to her orchestral violin music, and then the dubstep stuff, and my God, was she a genius. I looked in the section of related music, and started listening to Taylor Davis. Since I had started listening to music wherever I went, I had been recommended certain bands to listen to, both by Leo and Sanchia. He made an effort to be friendly and engaging at all times, and then she was sort of a jackass that I couldn't help but want to impress. I thought that people like that were dangerous, because I just wanted to be friends with them and tried really hard, only it almost always failed.

Leo had a lot of friends like that. That was something I learned when he had his birthday party. He went out with a bunch of his friends and they came home at ten pm, when I was texting Misha. His family had just adopted a cat from a shelter, and he had done a photoshoot of her. Her name was Treble, because he was a fucking nerd. I loved the name, and had informed him that I had started trying harder to learn how to read sheet music. And I had gotten better since leaving home, just not by much. There was an out of tune piano in the dance studio at school, so that had been where I learned most of what I know about music. It wasn't even like the piano got used for anything other than students messing around while waiting for class to start. But anyway, Leo’s friends all came into the room. There were about seven or eight of them, and they were loud as all fuck. I had moved from my spot on the bottom bunk to sit on a beanbag in the corner, but wound up being accompanied by a girl named Dani. She was very pretty. My inner child wanted to ask her what brand of shampoo she used, because he still hadn't figured out that the brand of shampoo you use has very little to do with the way your hair looks. She had flat ironed her bangs, definitely, but the rest of her hair had been curled. That was my assumption, since she looked like a model and only models have hair that perfect all the time. She cursed a lot, too. She seemed interesting, and that was where I found myself trying to impress her. It was a futile effort, really. I went back to texting Misha, although it was hard to focus what with all the people in the room. JJ was there, and he had very little volume control, which scared the shit out of me, but aside from the shouting, the only other annoying thing he did was make big gestures with his hands as he spoke. I was glad about that, because of how he acted out his words with his hands. It helped me understand what he was saying a bit better. It made the whole thing a little less overwhelming, but that was also cancelled out by how the people in every apartment around this one for a three unit radius could probably hear what was being said.

Another of his friends was the incredibly small Guang Hong Ji, another kid who was going to school with us for figure skating. How many people in the room were figure skaters, I wondered. So far the count was four and on the rise.

Leo’s friends were also incredibly queer. And I don't mean that as an insult. Literally, one of the boys introduced himself by stating his name and sexuality. Apparently, Jonas the surfer looking dude was gay. It amazed me that they were all so comfortable around each other, and around strangers. I would be terrified to introduce myself that way unless it was to Misha, and that wouldn't even be an introduction. It would at most be a joke about my own sexuality. Leo liked to go out with friends a lot, though, which was something I learned during the school year. They would all go out every Friday for dinner and he typically wouldn't come home until around nine at night. After we were both out of the competition schedule for the season, I started going out with him and his friends, although I would always bring my headphones in my pocket. Sometimes, they were too overwhelming and noisy, so I would have to listen to music until my brain could calm down. Leo had recommended some bands for me to check out, as well as some solo artists and musical soundtracks. A lot of the things he had to recommend were great, but weren't what I wound up hanging onto. Green Day lead me to Nirvana which lead me to My Chemical Romance, and that was a band that really stuck for me. A lot of people found it funny that I loved both My Chemical Romance and Strunz and Farah, but they didn't get it. MCR was filed away in my brain as interesting, and something that spoke to my soul with unidentified causation, and Strunz and Farah was filed away under calming. Leo would be left to puzzle over how I had wound up listening to what I did while I blissfully listened to the sound of Gerard Way’s voice and sundry rock music sounds.

After the end of the school year, life became a bit more stressful. As if it hadn't been stressful during the winter. Then again, the competitive season was over in December for me. Summer meant training during several more hours of the day, and living on kale salads and tree nuts. I was glad I wasn't allergic to nuts. I liked pistachios and peanuts and whatnot, but cashews were where the party was at. Cashews were the fucking bomb, and maybe it was unhealthy to eat so many cashews, but I didn't give a fuck. This was when I took a step back to think about of someone else my age could be talking about literally anything else and it would still sound more mature than what I was thinking about, and then another step back to ask some more very important questions, like how many fourteen year old boys were there in the world right now, and how many were thinking about cashews? I guess I didn't count in that group of people, though, because I had ceased to think about the cashews and had started thinking about thinking about cashews. Meta cashews.

Cashews aside, the stress of finals was lifted only to be replaced by skating. By now, I had established the pattern of calling home at nine am and pm every day, and the calls usually lasted about an hour. Sometimes more, sometimes less. I used the other hours of the day to talk to Misha, although winter made talking harder for the both of us, except for December. He went to visit family for Christmas, and said family happened to live two time zones over, so we were able to talk a little easier then, although not really, because he was fifteen now and his family was asking him about college. I would have laughed at that, seeing as Serik was praised heavily as the first member of my family to go to college. To me, going to college was just a fantasy.

Leo’s family also celebrated Christmas, and there was a lot of hubbub. They gave me presents. . I didn't think that I would have gotten presents, seeing as I kept to myself and was fairly quiet at home. Carmen was fairly annoying, though, and I felt bad for saying that. She kept trying to talk to me when I didn't want to be talked to. For example, a few nights ago, I fell into a deep, dark hole. Or rather, fell deeper. I didn't feel like life had any purpose, and like I had done nothing but waste the time and money of everyone around me. My chest physically hurt from how rotten and lonely I felt, even though there was someone else not three feet away. I went to the kitchen to get a drink of water, and then probably head to the bathroom to lay down in the empty bathtub. Apparently, Carmen had the same idea as me. Although, I assume she was acting without emotional backing and instead out of thirst.

“ _Morning,_ ” She said, as she pulled a can of soda out of the fridge. I nodded, and bit the inside of my bottom lip.

“ _H-Hi,_ ” I said softly, and avoided looking at her as I found a cup and filled it with water from the fridge. That’s right, they had a fancy ass fridge that dispensed water. It was really cool, but at the time, my heart was beating out of my chest, and I just wanted her to go back to bed and stop fucking staring at me. I could feel it. When I turned around to go back to the room, she was still there.

“ _Can't sleep?_ ” She asked. I nodded, and tried to walk back to my bedroom, but she stood in front of me. It didn't help that she was taller than me either.

“ _Me neither. I hate summer, it’s always too hot to sleep with the blankets on._ ” She popped open the can, and took a sip. “ _But yeah, I had some really weird dreams tonight. I was this general…_ ” She kept talking. I was somewhere between bursting into tears, because nobody at home loved me, and telling her that she was fucking obnoxious and that she should go back to sleep.

 _“…and I think I have insomnia, but it’s never been properly ighcnxzna, so maybe I’m just crazy._ ” She finally let me go after ten minutes of a mostly one sided conversation, at which point I went into the empty bathtub, inhaled my water, and sat there for several hours, and cried a lot. It was almost therapeutic. You’re not supposed to cry when people can see or hear you, and being able to cry without fear felt nice. I was never able to cry myself to sleep at home, and it wasn't a nice experience, but I can hardly believe that I had never cried myself to sleep before. And that makes me sound like a pretentious asshole who’s talking about never having tried a fucking kale smoothie or something, but it’s the truth. I just got so tired sometimes, and very few things gave sufficient rest.

Things were calm for a few days before I got a phone call from Ravil. He wasn't using Skype, and he was using his newly acquired iPhone to contact me. I didn't want to waste a lot of money by saying yes, but I was also weirded out by the fact that it was 2:39 am in Almaty. Nobody calls people at 2:39 am unless there’s someone who just died. I accepted his call with a shaking thumb.

“B-Beka, are you alone?” He asked shakily. God, it felt nice to hear someone speaking in Kazakh.

“No. Why, what’s happening? Why are you calling me at two in the morning?”

“Get alone. I need to talk to you, it’s important,” He whispered.

“Yeah, no shit it’s important,” I grumbled, and stood up from my spot on the couch, “ _I’m going outside for shortly,_ ” I said. Jimmy grunted in response, and I abandoned the season finale of Glee in favor of hanging out on the fire escape.

“Okay, I’m alone, what do you want?” I asked, watching a beige Buick drive along the street. Ravil was breathing rather shakily, I noticed.

“B-Beka,” He said softly, and then made a sobbing noise that sounded like he was in pain. I liked this conversation less and less by the second. Had our mom died or something? Ravil knew better than anyone that you didn't cry in front of people.

“I’m- I’m dating this girl. Her name is Zhuldyz. A-And she’s…” He sobbed again, “I fucking knocked her up.” I swear my heart stopped for a second. He kept crying, although I couldn't hear anymore. It was like I had inhaled a liter of tepid honey that was now slowly filling my lungs. Ravil had gotten some girl pregnant. He got her pregnant, he got her pregnant, he got her pregnant. Those words kept echoing in my head, like some sort of terrifying and fucked up mantra.

“You did what?!” I shrieked, even though I didn't want him to say it again. Maybe I had heard him wrong, maybe he was fucking with me. I prayed that it wasn't real.

“My girlfriend is fucking pregnant, dumbass!” He shouted, and then gasped.

“You’re stupid! You’re an idiot, you know that?!” I shouted into the receiver, “What were you thinking?! That you could pull out in time, or that you were fucking exempt from having sperm that impregnates people? Our family can't afford a fucking baby, especially not right now!” I shouted.

“Just- Just listen, okay Beka? She, uh, she said she wanted to keep it, and she’s going to raise it, but I have to pay for all of the doctor stuff. Please, man, I need you here. I…I need some goddamn help,” He said softly. His voice was shaking, and after he finished talking he started crying softly again. It must’ve been a lot worse for him, but I felt like my ears were full of water.  Chicago might as well have not been there. The sounds of my brother crying and my own heartbeat were all I could hear. He had gotten some girl pregnant, and now he was facing the consequences. Funny how one small course of actions has such a large blast radius. I mean, getting all those checkups would cost thousands of tenges, which Ravil didn't have. I wanted so badly to be mad at him for all this, but it was so hard when there was no way left to turn.

“D-Do Aliya and Serik know?” I asked.

“No,” He warbled, “She just called to let me know.” I wanted to give him a hug.

“O-Okay, um, my God, this is huge. U-Uh, well, you should tell Serik as soon as possible. Right? Right, that makes sense. Okay. You need to ask him for help,” I said.

“Beka, he’s unemployed, he- he can't-” He made a choking noise, “He can't help me. I need help, Bekkie, and- and look at yourself. You can help me.” He spoke with incredible urgency.

“I can't.”

“You have money, though, don't you? You’re an athlete, I’ve seen you compete on TV, they have to be paying you something! P-People don't just do these things without getting money!” He shouted, his voice getting higher as he spoke. He groaned.

“I don't get any money, it all goes to Mama!” I responded, clenching my fists. I had to help him. I went into my room, and found my wallet.

“All I have is twenty five American dollars, an iTunes gift card, and a debit card with nothing on it,” I told him, while cracking all of my fingers, even though there wasn't anything left there to crack. “I could try mailing it to you, but that would also be expensive, just like international phone calls.”

“WHAT?! Phone calls cost money?!” He shrieked, “Since when?”

“S-Since always! Big companies like to charge money if you want to go outside their range. Look, I’ll explain the way these things work later, but the best I can do now is try to get you the twenty five dollars. I- I don't know how much that is in tenges, but you could probably buy, like, six pizzas or something, I don't know.” He had started to breathe a little more normally.

“O-Okay. Thank you,” He said, and took a deep breath. He took several, in fact. “Sh-She’s due in five months. I- I’d like it if you could come home when she’s born.”

“I can't do that, Ravil, that’s in the middle of competition season.”

“So come home when there’s not a competition!” He shouted angrily, “You have to be here!”

“No! I love you, and I’ll love your child, if I ever get to meet them, but I can't just pack up in the middle of the competitive season because you fucked up! It’s counterintuitive, and plane rides are expensive,” I said. There was a pause from him.

“Hey. I’m still there for you. Just not, you know, right there,” I told him. He sniffled.

“I know. I love you.” He hung up. I disconnected myself from the call shoved my phone into my pocket, and leaned back against the wall of the apartment complex. I slid down until I was sitting on the metal grate, and pulled my knees into my chest. That had be some of the worst news I’d ever been given. It made me want to cry, and I could feel the heat behind my eyes, but there just weren't tears. I shuddered, and pulled my arms around my stomach. Even though nobody could get me pregnant, I thought about how terrifying it would be to have a baby growing inside of me, and then there were the next eighteen years…I would want an abortion. I felt so bad for Zhuldyz. She must’ve been so scared when she found out. I wanted to give her a hug, although not really, because I didn't know her, and she was probably older. Oh God, I hoped she was older. No, I had to have some faith in Ravil. Better late than never, I suppose. Then again, I was talking about having faith in a dumbass who had just gotten his girlfriend pregnant. And I had thought he was still dating Dami.

The wind started to blow, and it made me shiver. I stared down at the street. That Buick was gone. I wondered if I could see the suburbs if I climbed all the way up the fire escape until I wound up on the roof. I could dance up there and pretend that it was still 2003, back before Ravil had ever been interested in any girl and before I had ever even heard of ice skating and the entire world was limited to a very small portion of Almaty. Maybe things had been better that way. Yeah, babies were expensive, but they didn't know that. What if things actually were better off for someone to be blissfully ignorant of everything wrong with the world? If I closed my eyes, I could pretend that I was back at home, in one of the many winters when our heater was broken and we would have to wear five layers of clothes around the house just to stay warm. I didn't like being at home during those winters, because Mama would be just a bit more on edge than usual, and Ravil would be extra pissed about nothing, and Aliya would be angry. I specifically recall Ravil telling me to get out of our room once because his feet were super cold and it was impossible to warm them, no matter how many layers of socks he wore or blankets he crawled under. Personally, I wanted to go back to my earliest memories, back when our dad still loved us. I would climb out of my own bed and sneak into my parent’s bed when I was sad or scared or uncomfortable, and sometimes when I woke up, Aliya or Ravil would be there too. And then when everyone was awake enough to have rational thought, Ravil would get kicked out of the bed because it wasn't big enough for five people. It was plenty big enough for twenty people, I thought, because you could stack them as high as you wanted and fill in more space. Only now I knew that that would be like filling a bed with human sardines. I’d never even seen a sardine. When I was three, I’d never even seen a real fish. The only difference between now and then was that I have never seen a real fish while it was alive.

In the past few of those freezing cold winters, I would sneak out and go to Misha’s house a lot. His family always had a working heater and they always had a working air conditioner in the summer. I can guarantee you, it’s never been forty degrees inside his house, and it’s also never been anywhere close to zero. When I would go over in the winters, he would almost have to force me underneath a heating pad. In the summers, that heating pad would become an ice pack. Either one was always accompanied by a hug. In the winters, I liked to think it was because someone had told him he was physically warm at some point, even though he was a bit warmer than room temperature at the warmest when we hugged each other. (At least, externally. I would be very concerned if he was only twenty degrees on the inside). In the summers, I liked to think that he hugged me because he knew that I hadn't felt really happy in maybe a week or more. I liked his house better than my own home. It was nice there, meaning that there were no stains on the walls and there were no books used to keep furniture from collapsing. Just saying, my mom owed the kitchen cabinets to a book about marine biology. And Misha’s clothes never looked like they weren't right for him. See, I liked to wear clothes that could be found on a black to white gradient with a preference for all black, but to buy new clothes for three or four kids every few years wasn't cheap, so Mama just recycled by buying the eldest at home a couple new things every year and handing down clothes. Maybe that was why we looked like a family of stoners.

You know, I didn't tell Misha I loved him often enough. Or, like, at all. I yanked my cell phone out of my pocket, about to text him, but then I remembered that even he would be asleep by now. It was around three thirty am in Almaty, and he would have to be crazy to stay up that late. Or on crack. Or caffeine. Or both. I ran my hands through my hair, and shook it forwards so that a lot of it fell into my face. I wondered if my hair could form a blindfold that actually worked. I wiped the sweat on my palms off on my jeans and, clutching my cell phone to my chest, rolled onto my stomach. With my cheek pressed against the grate, I stared down at a blond woman in a beige trench coat. I wondered where she was going, if she was going to a meeting or her house or somewhere else. She looked a bit wayward, as she meandered down the street.

“ _Um…Otabek? Why are you lying on the fire escape?_ ” Asked the voice of Sanchia. I jerked up, clenching my fingers even tighter around my phone. I felt like I had just had a heart attack. Twice in a day, I should go for the record. She was leaning out of the window, looking like a model. Were there models that got paid to pose in windows? Probably, if it could be imagined, it was a job. Maybe she should give up college and start being a window model. No, she wasn't nearly that superficial.

“ _S-Sanchia…_ ” I gasped, “ _S-Sorry!_ ” I stood up and banged one of my elbows against the guardrail.

“ _Why are you sorry?_ ” She asked, smirking. “ _It’s impressive to be able to fall asleep on a fire escape. You’ll have to teach me your ways._ ” I swallowed.

“ _Can I go into the house?_ ” I asked. She moved to the side, and I climbed in. My shorts fell down slightly, and I had to pull them back up awkwardly after I was back in the bedroom.

“ _So what were you doing out there?_ ” She asked. I jumped again.

“ _Phone call,_ ” I said. She nodded, pursed her lips, and looked off to the left. I wondered what was so interesting over there.

“ _You sounded pretty upset, so, was it family?_ ”

“ _Y-You heard?_ ” I gasped. It was dumb to think that nobody had heard. Whoever was in that Buick probably heard.

“ _Yeah. You were shouting really loud in Russian or whatever, of course people noticed,_ ” She said, “ _You okay?_ ” I nodded.

“ _M-My dad won the lottery,_ ” I lied.

“ _You didn't sound too happy about it,_ ” She said, crossing her arms.

“ _It’s all fine. Why would it not be?_ ” Sanchia nodded sarcastically, in an overdone manner.

“ _Yeah, well, if you ever need to talk, you know where my bedroom is,_ ” She said, and left the room. I immediately turned around and closed the screen over the window. I flopped onto my bed, and took some deep, shaky breaths. Okay. Ravil’s girlfriend was pregnant. It could be fixed. I would just have to skate the best routine ever and win everything I could, and Serik would get a job. It would be fine. We would be fine, and Mama would never need to know about Zhuldyz. Well, she would, considering she was her son’s girlfriend, and Mama had indeed met Dami. Number two on the list was Misha. Just…Misha. Everything about him and what the actual fuck, why was I even doubting him? He loved me, or so he claimed, and you were supposed to, at the very least, care about the people you loved. I knew that I loved Misha, or at least I thought I did. He made me very happy, and I would never dream of hurting a hair on his head. Although I suppose that would be untrue. I’d hit him if he said something stupid, but that was what you did when people did dumb things, right? That was a pretty mean thing to do, though, so I strayed from casual violence as much as possible. I sighed. I was okay, and maybe if I kept telling myself that, it would become true. Nobody could prove I wasn't perfect unless they were able to get inside my head, so for all purposes other than anxiety and midnight bathtub crying sessions, Otabek Altin was perfectly fine and not at all wondering when it will all end.

Spoiler alert, it didn't all end that afternoon. Or the next, or the next. Everyone just kept on living, as they do, and there wasn't a goddamn thing anyone could do about it. Well, I could jump off the fire escape if I wanted to do something about it, but that would be rude and selfish. Everything anyone had ever done for me would be cancelled out, and that included years of people’s lives that had I had wasted. I wished I was useful. I wished I made billions of dollars a year. I wished that Ravil’s wrists and ankles were thicker, and that I was strong and flexible and totally independant from the rest of the world. Then, at least, I wouldn't be wasting the lives of other people. How much of people’s lives are spent on themselves? The amount of time I spend on myself is probably a lot higher than what other people spend. I’m a selfish little bitch, though, and the worst part about that is that I had to be to get this far. And where was ‘this far’ anyway? Thousands of kilometers away from home, laying on a bed? Some figure skater I was. The logical part of my brain that was saying that I was going skating today and that I had improved over the course of the last six years, but the part that I listened to more kept telling me that I was worthless. The worst part was that I listened to the more abusive part of myself. Even as I skated, there was this voice in my head telling me that I deserved all these bruises that would form on my lower body from falling and the way my feet and ankles felt like they were on fire. The way my body burned wasn't nearly enough payment for how worthless I was.

A week later, Leo’s birthday rolled around again, and he asked me if I wanted to go to the beach with him and his friends. I agreed, which I regretted almost as soon as I had said yes. I would probably make the experience worse for everyone. I didn't even have a swimsuit. Well, I did, it was just a thousand kilometers away, in the closet of my childhood bedroom. I hadn't thought I would need a swimsuit in Saint Petersburg, seeing as it would probably be too cold to go swimming. And fuck, was it cold. Words can't describe. But anyway, I put on my dumb cargo shorts and sleeveless hoodie to go to the beach, feeling awkward and out of place as fuck. Everyone else was wearing synthetic materials and here I was with my regular ass clothes and intense farmer tan. Then came another part of the ‘adventure’, which was getting everyone and everything into the car. Everyone included Sanchia, the designated driver, Carmen, Jimmy, Leo, JJ, Guang Hong, and some of his other friends. There was Jonas, Charlie, and Rosario. And, well, me. But it’s stupid to repeat that, because I already mentioned that I was going to be joining them. Why was I even going anyway? I wasn't very good friends with anybody except for Leo, and maybe JJ. But I was supposed to be friends with Leo, so he didn't count.

I shouldn't have gone, seeing as I made the experience worse for everyone, but I did. Everyone assembled in Leo’s family’s apartment for pizza before we all got in Damien’s minivan to go to the beach, which was about a half hour away. The unfortunate thing was that there was nowhere near enough space in the car for everyone. There were seven seats, and ten people.

“ _I will not go,_ ” I said, as soon as it was an obvious problem.

“ _No,_ ” protested JJ, “ _It’ll be less fun without you._ ” Well he was delusional. Of course, I already knew that, but thinking it again made me feel like a douchebag and so I tried to think positively about it.

“ _Here, sit next to me,_ ” He said.

“ _I can not,_ ” I said. He was sitting in the back seat of the car, next to the wall. Jonas was sitting on his left. I really should have just gotten in the damn car or went back upstairs.

“ _We’ll scooch_ ,” Jonas suggested, “ _Move it, Rosie_.” Why did he care so much? Why did all of them care so much as to move over so that I could squish myself into the tiny space between JJ and the wall of the car? Nobody could even wear a seatbelt now, not that it mattered. Charlie was already sitting on Rosario’s lap, and Carmen was sitting on the floor in between the two middle seats. I wasn't even sure that Jimmy and Guang Hong were wearing their seatbelts. This was very dangerous, and I was contributing to that. Great. I tried to see a good part of this, and I suppose the good part was that I wasn't a post pubescent woman with wide hips. Although I kind of wish my hips were wider. I think that I would look good with wide set hips. Daydreaming about potential body modifications couldn't solve my problems, but at least I could pretend that it would.

By the time we got to the beach, my hips ached from being squished between JJ’s hip and the wall of the car. That was good. I deserved it, for making JJ’s hip hurt and for inserting myself into the situation. At least, I thought I had hurt JJ’s hip. When we got out of the car and onto the sand, Sanchia deposited herself in a spot on the sand, and told everyone that this was where we had to report back to at six pm to go back to the house for dinner. Most of the others had brought bags, which made me feel bad as I sat on the sand with nothing but my cell phone and a wadded up ten dollar bill. I didn't put on sunscreen like everyone else, nor did I take off my sleeveless hoodie. I figured that my skin wasn't exactly pale and that I would probably be fine. But then, there was a voice in my head asking _what if you get skin cancer?_ How would it break me, and how fast? I pulled my phone out of my pocket, and stared at a picture of Misha while I waited for everyone else to finish arguing about what they were going to do. He was so beautiful. I wished I was with him.

“ _Are you coming or not?_ ” JJ asked, squatting next to me. He had lost his shirt somehow, although I had a hunch it was in the drawstring bag he had brought. I jumped, and flung my phone out of my hands. I scrambled to pick it up, but he felt the need to pick it up for me for whatever reason.

“ _Hm?_ ” I hummed, and reached for my phone. He didn't give it back.

“ _Who’s this?_ ” He asked. I bit the inside of my bottom lip, feeling my cheeks flush.

“ _H-He is my friend. From home,_ ” I said, making another grab for the phone. Like hell Misha was just a friend. JJ refused to give it to me once more.

“ _What’s his name?_ ”

“ _M-Misha!_ ” I said, and lunged at him this time. He swung away from me, still looking at my phone.

“ _He’s pretty cute,_ ” JJ commented. That made me feel all weird inside. I had never really thought about how Misha was physically attractive. I mean, I suppose he’s attractive, with his red hair and pale skin, and the way he eats pizza with a fork, even if it’s the least droopy and most structurally sound slice of pizza in the world. How he writes solely with blocky uppercase letters, and hisses slightly on the ‘s’ sound. But those weren't really physical attributes. I didn't want JJ to think that Misha was cute, and I didn't know why, which made it all worse. We weren't even dating or anything, I had no reason to be jealous of anything. I wasn't jealous of anything. JJ could pop back into my life the day I got married and tell me that my spouse looked cute, and I wouldn't give a fuck.

“ _I do not think that,_ ” I said, and made another grab for my phone. Was I supposed to think that he was cute? We had a thing, but what exactly was that thing? It was either a very romantic friendship or a very platonic romance. I would honestly be fine with either, but he was more than a friend and also less than a partner. JJ snorted,

“ _Are you straight or something?_ ” Fuck him. I didn't know! Well, I sort of did. I wasn't straight but that didn't mean I knew what my sexuality was!

“ _I don't think so,_ ” I told him, and swatted his forearm. He yelped, and dropped my phone into the sand. I grabbed it and stuffed it in the pocket of my shorts. I stood up and slid my sandals off.

“ _Wait, dude, you’re keeping your phone in your pocket while you go in a lake? Which is filled with water?_ ” He asked. I didn't say anything, just reveled in how dumb that was. I noticed that Jimmy had taken his shirt off as well, as had Rosario. They had been wearing a flannel over their swimsuit, though, so they weren't really shirtless or anything. I was still overcome with the strong desire to take my hoodie off, while at the same time, I would rather put on a trenchcoat. I hated going swimming. Then again, I rarely swam when the opportunity was presented to me. In fact, the only time I had ever been swimming was that time Misha brought me to that tributary and we almost died. Even then I hated wearing the swimming trunks. People could see my chest, which was ugly. There was some fat around my stomach area, and I was at the in between the stage of being a regularly puffy person and a muscular person. I wasn't pretty yet, though, and nobody wants to see an ugly boy’s body.

“ _N-No,_ ” I said, and set my phone down next to JJ’s bag. He scoffed, “ _You can put it in the bag, you know._ ” I did so immediately, although I still felt guilty for whatever reason.

“ _Okay! Come on, let’s go!_ ” He said, and grabbed one of my wrists. He pulled me up to my feet and lead me along to where everyone else was hanging out where the sand met the water. Everything was fine and good until we started to drift out and away from the shore. I hung back, not going any deeper than my midriff. I knew it was stupid and that I was holding the others back, especially the tall ones, like Charlie and JJ and all, but I was an idiot who was scared of drowning. Well, not really scared of drowning. I guess what I was afraid of would be not having a say in whether or not I drowned. If I could swim, then I could choose to die, but if I couldn't, I might just die anyway. And what if that happened on a good day? Well, it would only be good up until I was assassinated by water. Which, in itself, can be determined in goodness or badness but isn't really something important.

Eventually, they did go deeper into the lake. JJ stayed behind with me, though. We talked, although that’s an overstatement. It was mostly him talking and me standing. He had the tendency to heavily incorporate song lyrics into his casual speech, often quoting the White Stripes or songs from the Top Forty hits. He was a very Top Forty type of guy. I knew this because he had recently had his own birthday party. It had all been rather extreme. He invited a lot of people, and I honestly don't know why I was on that lengthy list, but I was. His parents had rented out this ballroom, and I swear that there were a hundred people in there. I don't think I even knew one hundred people, and he was there talking about people he was sad couldn't make it. Being in a room with that many people scared the shit out of me, might I say. I’m just glad that while there was alcohol involved, I did not drink any of it. I can't say the same for certain other people standing next to me, currently shirtless, and talking about how awesome rain is.

“ _I like how it gets you wet, if that makes sense,_ ” He said, “ _Like, how you’re not just soaked all at once and its a gradual process, not like a shower head._ ”

“ _I broke my wrist once and now I feel rain,_ ” I commented. He laughed without opening his mouth.

“ _I’d hope you can feel when it’s raining. Otherwise you’d be deaf in the skin,_ ” He said.

“ _What?_ ” I asked, “ _Deaf in the skin?_ ” How had he gotten that from me mentioning my weather break?

“ _Like, not feeling things when they touch your skin?_ ” He said, confused, “ _Not having the sense of touch?_ ”

“ _I understand that, but where did you get it from?_ ” I asked.

“ _You implied that you only started to feel rain when after you broke your wrist. Sorry about that, by the way. I broke my foot once. It was awful. I had to wear a cast for six weeks and then a boot for another month!_ ”

“ _What is it called when your body hurts because of the weather?_ ” I asked.

“ _Old age,_ ” He joked. I rolled my eyes.

“ _No, stupid, in Kazakh it’s a_ weather break, _and in Russian it’s a_ **weather break** , _but I do not know what it is in English,_ ” I explained. JJ nodded, his eyebrows raised. When they came back down, they pinched together around his glabella.

“ _Well, seeing as that is total gibberish, can you describe it in English_?”

“ _The place where the bone broke hurts when it’s raining,_ ” I said. JJ’s fact lit up.

“ _Oh, that’s called a weather break,_ ” He told me. I nodded, and pulled my right hand up to my chest. I let it fall and the back of my hand slapped against the surface of the water. It only stung a little bit.

“ _I used to go to this rock climbing place when I was a kid and they told us that to get calloused hands we could slap the surface of water really hard,_ ” JJ said in a sort of noncommittal way, and high fived the water. He hissed slightly, and then pulled his hand out to slap the water again. He created a large splash this time, which went out and up in a circular sort of fashion, around his hand. I flinched when the water landed on my face. I flicked some water back at him, and he returned the favor until a splash fight was going on. It was weird. It made me feel happy.

Later that day, after eating an obscenely large funnel cake for lunch, JJ tried and failed at teaching me how to swim. It didn't end well. I decided that I would go underwater partway through, and pretend that I was drowning. And after about a minute, I started actually thinking about what it would be like to drown. It wouldn't be too awful until the very end. I mean, you get to chill out underwater until it kills you, and the only part that sounds remotely bad is the dying part. It was quite nice to be underwater. Maybe this was what it was like to walk on the surface of the moon. But seeing as how I spent a lot of time floating around underwater, it can be determined that JJ is a terrible teacher who honestly sucks at swimming instruction. Then again, I guess swimming was a more important and harder to learn skill than drowning oneself, so I was probably better off.

On the ride home, Sanchia felt the need to compliment me on my hair. She thought that it looked nice curly. I thanked her, even though I thought I looked awful. I felt awful. My legs hurt and I had indeed gotten a sunburn. I was damp and my shorts chafed uncomfortably against my thighs. When I showered in the evening, I noticed that my inner thighs were very red. That night, I got a lot of sleep. It wasn't enjoyable. I don't remember what I dreamed about, but it made me wake up in a cold sweat, full of a adrenaline, and craving death or nonexistence once more. After another day, it was readily apparent that a fever had jumped, mugged, and left me for dead. It left me a lot of time to do absolutely nothing, which was never good. You never can tell when you’re done doing nothing. Sometimes you’re interrupted, and that’s taken as the end of the nothingness, but it might not actually be the end of the nothing. I spent my week and a half of nothing on thinking. I thought a lot about Misha. I made a list of everything I loved about him that was stored in his hypothalamus and hippocampus. It wasn't short, and I nearly forgot what I was doing. When I was done with that, I made a list of the things I loved about his physical being. He was flexible. His hair was red, and his eyes were a deep, mossy green. They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul, and if that’s just the window, I wonder how beautiful what lies beyond them must be. He was tall but his hands and feet were a lot smaller than mine. I liked the contrasting colors of our skin when they were put side by side, and how his hair was always on point. I guess that was cute? I don't really know. I never really thought about people being ‘cute’ before. All I knew was that I hated the word and didn't ever want to see it applied to me. I groaned and rolled over on my bed, pulling the blankets further up around my shoulders. My stomach hurt like there was an intensely miniature battalion inside trying to cut their way out with pocket knives.

I made more lists. I listed my favorite things about skating, and my favorite foods. Bread was pretty high on the list. I listed my favorite bands and musicians, and my favorite little things from home. There was a train track that ran near my grandparents’ house, and a burnt out shell of a building that Ravil and his friends liked to hang out in. It used to be a restaurant, but those days ended in 1994. I liked the store where we bought a lot of our clothes, because it made me feel like I was the king under the mountain. Well, not exactly. I was more like a hobbit than a dwarven king. Or a king of any sort. After that, I listed my favorite books, and then ranked the Harry Potter series from best to worst. My favorite book was the Goblet of Fire, and my least favorite was the Order of the Phoenix. And this list making was all good and swell and shit, but it wasn't long before I started to think about myself again. Like a fucking narcissist. Although mostly, it was spent thinking about how much money I took up. First, with doctor visits when my mother was pregnant. That was at least a couple hundred thousand tenges. Then there was birth. I had been told that I was born in the back seat of my mother’s car, so all that costed was then going to the hospital and making sure I didn't die. Next came clothing and food and a bassinet. Although most of my things were hand me downs, I got my own baby toys. Like a rattle and teething things. And diapers. School supplies and ballet tuition. When I was seven, I would add hundreds of thousands of tenges by taking up skating, he cast of my broken wrist. The costs of supplies to make costumes. Then I had to go to Russia, and America, and waste millions of tenges and hours on not being perfect. The most I could do was try to make my family proud. They had put a huge investment in me and I knew I could make them proud. So far, what did all of that mean? Faith? Hope? Yeah, right, they were asking me to be perfect and I would try as hard as physically and mentally possible to get there. I knew I could do it and nothing could stop me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hit the kudos button to become a member of the cashew cult 
> 
> _____  
> / \  
> | ^ |  
> | < > |  
> | v |  
> \\______/
> 
> look i tried to draw a pentagram are you proud of me


	17. 2013.2

Yuri Plisetsky had a very active presence on social media. I learned this shortly after being badgered into creating an Instagram account by JJ and Leo. The pair of them were Instagram addicts and thought that it was the best thing since animals evolved to lay eggs on land. Only it wasn't. It was just another lame social media platform that served no real purpose. Leo had let go of the idea of my potential Instagram account ages ago, back when I told him I didn't want one or see any real purpose to having one. He shrugged and said  _ Fair enough _ , and went back to liking photographs taken by his friends at school. JJ, however, was insistent. He proposed a lot of reasons why I should get an Instagram account as well. I could make friends that way. I could follow all of my celebrity crushes. I could use it to help get noticed by the general public as a figure skater. That last one was the only real thing that sparked my interest. I had looked at JJ’s account and a lot of it was just skating stuff, which was the more popular portion of his account, but he also posted short videos of him singing songs that came out in the 80s. He was incredibly partial to a man named Bruce Springsteen, although he was better at singing Michael Jackson songs. JJ’s voice was high as a motherfucking kite. 

Besides, I used my phone to look at skating things already. I was tempted to start putting videos of myself skating up on YouTube, because that way I could get money out of ad revenue. It was eventually figure skating that got me to start an Instagram account, on the Wednesday of the week before finals at school. It may not have been the best idea, because shortly after declaring my account private and requesting to follow both Jjleroy15 and leoofthechurch, Instagram recommended that I follow yuri_plisetsky. He was Yuri-from-ballet-camp, Yuri-who-fell-down-the-stairs, inspiring and pulchritudinous Yuri. Although seeing his selfies on Instagram was not the first time I had seen his face since summer camp. 

Last year, in the second week of November, I was in Moscow for a competition. I had been in the bathroom at the arena, looking for JJ. He was supposed to be on the ice in five minutes and was nowhere to be found and I wasn't supposed to be on until the end, so I brought it upon myself to find his dumb ass and make sure he was on the ice when he was supposed to be. The first place I checked was the bathroom, where, as luck had it, JJ was not. However, there was a strange noise filling the room. It sounded like somebody choking and throwing up at the same time. There was only one stall that had the door closed. I abandoned my JJ quest in favor of asking the person in the stall if they were okay. 

“ _ Get the fuck out, _ ” They sobbed in Russian. Their voice was vaguely familiar. Alarms going off in my head for about the four hundred and fifty second time that day.

“ _ Do you need any help? _ ” I asked. It was perhaps against my better judgement. I bent down to see the person’s legs. They were kneeled down in front of the toilet. 

“ _ Leave me the hell alone! _ ” They shouted. I didn't say anything after that, and listened to them cry while making those awful noises. The person sounded like they were dying, and it was scary because what if they were? They kept making those noises and sobbing quietly. I recognized that type of crying. The person’s heart was broken. And not in the way the sounds coming from them were heartbreaking, no, in the way that somebody else had ripped their heart out of their chest, stomped on it, and put it in a blender that was on high speed. They were crying sad tears that made me sad from listening. JJ was far from my mind. He was probably on the ice by now anyway.

The toilet flushed and the door opened to reveal Yuri Plisetsky. I gasped without opening my mouth. Why was he even here? He wasn't in the junior circuit, and he wouldn't be until next year. His white-blond hair was ruffled up intensely, and his green eyes were bloodshot. He had bags under his eyes and an intense amount of saliva mixed with something I couldn't identify on his chin. He shook as he walked to the sink and stared at himself in the mirror. He turned on the sink and cupped his hands to catch some water. He splashed his chin and repeated the process until he was clean and dripping. 

“ _ Are you going to laugh at me? _ ” He asked, without looking away from the mirror. I shook my head. 

“ _ Why would I do that? _ ” I asked. His glare at his reflection intensified. 

“ _ I’m a fucking joke! _ ” He shouted, and brought his foot up to kick the sink. 

“ _ Y-You’re Yuri Plisetsky, right? _ ” I asked. He nodded. “ _ You’re incredible. _ ” He scoffed angrily, “ _ Dumbass _ .” He sniffled and started combing wet fingers through his hair. His hairstyle had changed slightly since summer camp. He had a more uniform bowl cut now, when he used to have a more unruly ‘I actually did wake up like this and that’s why it’s a mess’ look. In my opinion, he looked better with that hairstyle, but the one he had now wasn't all that bad. His hair wasn't that important, though. I was looking more at Mirror Yuri’s face. His eyes were tired. There were intense bags under his eyes and they were purple looking due to the bluish tint that eye bags come with and how red his face was due to the tears. I would later learn that he had been in Moscow because he could be in Moscow if he wanted to. Some of the other members of the Russian skating team were there at the same time, and Yuri had been born in Moscow. Years and years down the road, he would tell me about how he went to watch the skating and scout out his competition for the future, although he was also in the city to visit home. He rarely got to see his small family in person, so he took every chance he got to see them. But it was still half a decade before I would be given that information, and I was still freaking out about why Yuri was crying and calling himself a joke. He was a brilliant skater. And he wasn't the childish sort of brilliant, the type where the kid is really good and the envy of all without realizing it. They just do what they do because they love it. He knew that he was good at figure skating and he knew that other people were jealous of him. He didn't have the shining eyes and gap toothed grins that came from being a talented youth. He reminded me of my dad and grandfather, actually. Although mostly of Grandpa. Grandpa had a knowing, far off look in his eyes. They were even hard when he smiled. And he was seventy two years old. I didn't really remember the way my father’s eyes looked, but there was one instance in which he had called me worthless that really stuck out to me. I wanted to show him a little dance that I had made up, so I did. The other kids at ballet class talked up their parents, and some of them even bragged by repeating compliments given to them by their moms and dads. I didn't have that, so I suck it out and my dad told me that I was worthless to him if my head was off in the clouds deluded with the fantasy that I could become a ballerina. I asked him what if I worked really really hard, and he told me that I had no place as a dancer and that I would be better off with a regular job. He said that our family didn't have talent and that we were strong. It was strength over talent and while talent was nice strength was better. A job in a factory or the field of physical labor was stable and could provide a family with what they needed for a lifetime. How were we even a family when we didn't even have the same surname?

I cried that night. I was soft and weak and I just wanted to have a father who was proud of my dreams of pointe shoes. Mama did find me, though, and she told me that anyone could be anything. Anyone could dream and wish for whatever they wanted, but once they made that wish, they had to work toward what they want. God didn't go around giving miracles to everyone who wanted something; in fact, he did the exact opposite. But Papa’s eyes were scary. They were on fire, and they would leave no survivors. His eyes were intense and blacker than anyone’s eyes I’ve ever seen. They were the eyes of a man who could fuck you up. But they were also old, and Yuri was a lot younger than my father. What did he have to go through to be able to have eyes that looked like they belonged to someone on a battlefield? I didn't want to feel sorry for him but I did all the same. I wondered if he needed a hug. He probably did, although he wouldn't accept one from me. 

“ _ What are you looking at? I said get the fuck out of here! _ ” He shouted at me. I nodded softly. 

“ _ Good luck, _ ” I whispered as loudly as one can whisper, and left the bathroom. I hoped Yuri was doing okay. As soon as I left the bathroom, however, I saw that the guy skating before me, some Slovene skater whose name I didn't remember, was on the ice. I didn't forget about Yuri, though. In fact, I thought about him a lot. The idea of becoming as good as he was one day was sort of like a good luck charm. I also liked to go on his Instagram a lot. Fortunately, so did he. He posted a lot of pictures of his cat, whose name was Puma Tiger Scorpion. The cat was an intensely fluffy siamese. I liked the name. It was very original, and I don't mean that in the way a person says ‘original’ when they mean it’s awful. I mean that I actually liked the name. It was cute, or so I thought until I came across evidence that the cat was not at all cute. Puma Tiger Scorpion was a badass. I didn't know all that much about house cats, but I was fairly certain that it was unusual for them to hunt snakes. Pochya, as Yuri would sometimes call his cat, had a whole tag of his own dedicated to his snake captures. There were five pictures of Puma Tiger Scorpion with a snake under this tag, and they were all different snakes. Yuri would post photosets of the snake hunting, where the first picture was of the cat and the snake, be it in his mouth or on his back or next to him. Then was the snake alone, and then was a selfie of Yuri holding the snake. He would say what type of snake it was in the description as well. Pochya had caught three garter snakes, a hognose snake, and a ball python, which Yuri was quite excited about. One of the tags on that photoset was MINI PYTHON! But his Instagram wasn't all about the cats. He had also nicknamed himself the Russian Punk in retaliation to others calling him a fairy. I liked that. It implied that he was the only punk from Russia. He also posted a lot of selfies and pictures of little outfits he had put together made up of clothes that were already in his wardrobe. He had a horrible fashion sense, but I still thought he looked cool. Maybe I was biased towards the occasional appearance of black eyeliner and fingerless lace gloves. He never smiled in his pictures, which was a shame. He would probably be incredibly gorgeous with a smile on his face. And, according to the soundtrack of Annie, you were never fully dressed without a smile. Oh well. If that was being fully dressed, I was content to run around partially naked. Besides, smiling hurt my cheeks and the expression colloquially known as the Resting Bitch Face did not. 

Lowkey internet stalking Yuri made me way happier than it should have. These days, all I could think about was Ravil and his dumb baby. It made me willing to work harder. I tore a fucking muscle for him and his bastard child. I had to take two weeks off, which was scary in itself. I hadn't picked either of the songs that I was going to use this year, although I was down to a couple of songs I liked. They were O Fortuna, In The Hall of the Mountain King, The Music of the Night, Coma Black, Rock Is Dead, Sweet Dreams, Heart Shaped Box, November Rain, Back To Black, Sleep To Dream, Shadowboxer, and Timestretch by Bassnectar, specifically because of the YouTube description. So maybe it wasn't a couple. But it was hard to pick out my favorite songs when all I did was listen to music. I didn't want to be like the rest of the skaters who were into music, like stripper music, or pop, or metal, but then skated to classical. That was bullshit. If I was gonna do something I loved, I was going to do it to my favorite songs and not some concerto that was three hours long. Not that I didn't like concertos, it was just that it was really hard to pick your favorite few minutes. Of course, some of the songs I liked were pretty long, and I don't think I could handle seven or eight minutes of being fucking intense. I also had the terrible habit of adding in the most ridiculous things to the program when I forgot what was supposed to happen. For example, after seeing Yuri in the bathroom, I had a moment about halfway through my program when I completely blanked, so I made up some weird half baked mess of a step sequence and then did a straddle jump. I did the superhero landing, which actually hurt a fucking lot. It was hard on almost every joint in my body. The only upside to it all was that it was in time with the music that was playing. I felt like I was going to fall apart like a Jenga tower afterwards. 

To say that my life was stressful made me feel like I was being one of those people who make four hundred thousand dollars a year who complained about their lives being difficult, but I thought I was loosing weight because of the stress. I sent Ravil half of the money I had left with me, which I immediately regretted. I only had two hundred dollars left now, and I was supposed to last until the end of the year on that. Oops? No, it was worth it, if he didn't have to do everything himself. He called in after the first week of school to tell me that he had gotten a job at a garage. And that Zhuldyz was due in three months and she had decided that she didn't want the baby because the pregnancy bump was getting too hard to hide from her parents. 

“WHAT?!” I shrieked into the receiver when he told me, “This was not the arrangement!” 

“Shh, Beka! Mom might hear you,” He whispered, “And don't fucking talk to me about how this is unfair or whatever. You wouldn't know unfair if it fucked you in the ass and left it’s phone number on your forehead.”

“Oh really?” I challenged. He had no place in telling me I didn't know what unfairness was. I knew what Capitalism was, didn't I? But no, if he, the one who caused some of the most tormented parts of my life, was telling me that I didn't know what unfair was, then he was stupid. Although I already knew that. Was it fair to have to walk around for eleven years getting called all sorts of names because of a passion? Was having the dad I did while other people had dads who loved them and cared about them? Was it fair that I worked so hard and was still kilometers behind everyone else in the skating world? Was it fair that my idiot brother had gotten some girl pregnant and  _ I _ had to pay for the baby?

“Uh, yeah!” He said, “You’ve gotten everything you’ve ever wanted!” 

“No I fucking haven't! You’re a dumbass, and you’re about to pay for it! You- You need to tell Mom first thing in the morning,” I told him. He scoffed, and then didn't say anything for a while.

“I want to go to college, Beka,” He whispered slowly, as if he needed to make sure each word wasn't a land mine and he wouldn't die if he let the next one roll off his tongue. 

“You can do that when you’re old,” I told him. He laughed. 

“You don't get it. I can never go to college and I never get what I want. Have fun getting rich and old and having a dynasty of good shit happening to you, like some superhero.” He hung up. I was just angry now. I totally knew what unfairness was and I wanted to punch him for thinking that I was just some happy kid. It was probably not something I was allowed to say, but I had started to think that I had depression. I had looked up the symptoms and found a website on the internet that was used by people with depression to talk to each other instead of a therapist. I could relate so hard to some of the things that people posted about. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? Aside from Ravil’s bastard child to be stressed about, I had started to become stressed out about Misha. Well, not exactly Misha. More about my sexual and romantic orientation. Misha was nice. I guess I was attracted to him. He had nice features that were physically aesthetically pleasing. He was a pretty nice guy. He had his faults, but who didn't? I wanted to spend a lot more time with him, but it was around the start of the school year when I realized that I was different from him in the way I liked people. There was a girl he liked at home. Her name was Kyushee and she was in his homeroom at school. She had been for the past three years. But he also liked me. He loved me. (Holy shit, he fucking loved me.) Was there such a thing as liking multiple people at once? I loved Misha, but it was because I had known him for more than half of my lifetime. I would have loved him by now anyway, romantic or not. How was it that he had the capacity to like multiple people? Was it weird not to feel romantic attraction towards multiple people, or barely anyone at all? Also, like, what was it to think somebody was cute? I didn't understand it. 

I mean, JJ had recently started long-distance dating this girl he knew from home, and he thought that she was cute. Her name was Izzie Yang, and she looked kind of like Misha only with black hair. And also nothing like Misha. In fact, the only trait that they shared was having skin that was pale as fuck. Of course, JJ thought I was pale, so maybe I wasn't one to judge. Izzie had only been shown to me via a camera, but I supposed that she was physically aesthetically attractive. Her eyes were huge and a crystal blue shade, while her hair was super dark, in a way that she looked like the actor who played Percy Jackson in the movies. Leo thought that she was sort of cute too, but he wasn't really allowed to think that because he had also started dating somebody. His newly acquired, as in, first week of school new, boyfriend was another skater who went to the same rink as us in the summer, while he spent the winters in Shanghai. The boy’s name was Guang Hong Ji. He was from China, and he was over at the apartment a lot, especially since they had started dating. Their ‘dates’ didn't even seem to have any purpose to them. They just sat on the couch for hours and talked to each other while eating food and watching various things on TV. I mean, they had gone to see Chicago when it was in Chicago, but that was with a group of people, myself included. Although I sat next to JJ and we played with our popcorn the entire time. I had Cell Block Tango stuck in my head for weeks. JJ’s favorite song was All That Jazz. He said that he could see himself skating to it, which came as a shock to me because that wasn't his usual jam. He liked pop music, specifically David Bowie, Whitney Houston and the Jackson Five. Then again, he was also an avid fan of Bon Jovi, so there was that. As long as we were both unreasonably and vehemently against Justin Beiber, I was cool with his music tastes. 

But anyway, apparently people around my age masturbated. I mean, I had heard people saying that teenagers masturbated a lot, but I didn't think that was true. I had never been, as they say, ‘horny’. I didn't even think that it was a thing, personally. Then again, who was I to speak for other people’s experiences? Maybe older teenagers masturbated more. Like Misha. God, it was weird to think of him masturbating. What did you even do when masturbating? Was there a technique to it or something? What the hell was it even? I wanted to ask Misha, but I didn't know how.  _ Yes, hello, how are you, I would like to know what it feels like to masturbate. _ He would probably think I was a dumb kid or something. And I really wanted to impress him. 

I didn't know why, though. Was that part of this whole attraction thing? None of it made a iota of sense. How was it that people my age were already dating and kissing and stuff? I mean, of course I’d had fantasies about real mouth-on-mouth kissing, but the idea of actually doing it made me blush. And while I was on the topic, forced romances in films needed to fuck off. A character meets a character and twelve hours later, movie time, they’re madly in love with each other? Just because they’re the male and female leads? I call bullshit. There have been more convincing love stories between friends. Those were the sort I liked to see better anyway. Although the romantic love stories can be convincing if spread out far enough, like in the Harry Potter series. Although I didn't really think that the pairings all the characters ended up in were correct. I would have rather seen Harry and Hermione get together, or maybe just have nobody get together. Then again, it proposes a more interesting ending if they all have children going off to Hogwarts in, what? 2016? 2017? Something like that. And that’s not even bringing up Draco Malfoy. He was my favorite character, and I would have liked to see more interactions between him and Harry. Some people on the Internet said that there was some sort of sexual tension between him and Harry, but I could barely understand any of it. To me, the books were all about the magic and adventures. I wished that I could go to Durmstrang because of those books. 

However, the school year had started and I wouldn't be able to really read any good books until the next summer break. We had a shit ton of homework every night and it was all very stressful. The only things I was any good at were English and Russian. I was okay at math, and science was confusing. American History was boring and last year, I had had to read the United States Constitution, which was insanely difficult. JJ even thought it was hard to read, and English was his first language. We were required to take a second language class, and Russian was one of the options, so I took that class out of laziness. I assume that that is also why JJ was in the French class. Guang Hong thought that it was cheating that we took classes in languages that we already knew, but he didn't understand. For me, it was agony to be in the Russian class. It was incredibly oversimplified and while there were two other Russian students in the class I was in, everybody spoke in a painfully American way. I mean, I knew that I didn't sound like I was from the depths of Moscow, but at least I didn't talk like I was from Texas. At least JJ enjoyed taking French. There was one time I was eating some borscht and he started calling me ‘mon petit chou’ and not telling me what it meant. With the help of Google translate, I learned that my new nickname was ‘my little cabbage’. I didn't get it but I also didn't care. Speaking of JJ, we were supposed to go out this weekend. He had some shopping to do and he didn't want to go alone. I was supposed to do my homework this weekend, but seeing as I really didn't care about proofs, and the only geometry I would ever use in real life would be calculating things for skating, I had agreed on the outing. Was it bad that I used math to calculate things on the fly when skating as often as I did? Improvisation was sometimes necessary but not always a good thing. I lost points because of my stupid superhero style landing last year. JJ thought that it was amazing and that I should take over for someone on the Avengers. It was a feat that I managed to not break my wrist again with that dumb stunt, but I was nowhere near special enough to join the Avengers. Speaking of which, we were seeing the next Thor movie when it came out as well. 

But anyway, this weekend was in approximately half an hour, which was why I was texting Misha. He had just spent the week volunteering at a summer camp for kids ages three to seven, and they had tired him the fuck out. I would be laughing at him if I was able to move without some random part of my body hurting. I had started to do a lot more exercises at home because I felt bad about how weak I was, and doing full body push ups for ten minutes caused a hell of a lot of pain the next day. I could barely raise my hand in class. So yes, we were both fucking dead. 

 

**so anyway i was there with kyushee and she is literally the best with kids**

**Миша 11:34**

 

**they listened to everything she said, no joke. there was this one kid who didnt want to walk around with everyone because he was tired and i sat there for like 5 minutes trying to get him to stand up and then she swoops right in and he walks when she asks him!!!! like what the fuck she’s a kid whisperer**

**Миша 11:34**

 

**this is madness**

**Миша 11:34**

 

Or the kids don't like you because you’re a fucking tree

Me 11:34

 

**shut up im not that tall**

**Миша 11:34**

 

Why don't you shut up? You’re like 180 centimeters. For retrospect, let me tell you how tall I am. I’m 158! And Kyushee? If she’s a sixteen year old girl, she’s probably around 164 or something like that, so you can'it say that you’re ‘not that tall’. You’re most likely not done growing, seeing as you’re sixteen, and the average height for male born people is 177 centimeters. You’re taller than my mom, my grandmother, and my grandfather. You’re taller than all my siblings, and you’re probably taller than at least one of your own parents. Thank you and shut up. 

Me 11:35

 

**why must every conversation with you be like this**

**Миша 11:35**

 

Like what?

Me 11:35

 

**you like to nitpick**

**Миша 11:35**

 

I have never tried nor had the need to pick for knits, seeing as neither I nor anyone in my immediate family has ever had lice during my lifetime.

Me 11:35

 

**jackass**

**Миша 11:36**

 

**so do you like anyone in america?**

**Миша 11:38**

 

Yes, I’ve made a few friends, although I’m only good friends with a boy named JJ, who is also a skater, and a boy who is part of my host family. His name is Leo, and he’s also a skater. So is his boyfriend, although I don't know him too well.

Me 11:39

 

**like romantically**

**Миша 11:39**

 

I was about to send the text  _ I’m in America and I like you romantically, does that count? _ but then I realized that Misha probably wouldn't appreciate it would seem like I was flirting with him. Did I want to be doing that? I didn't know.

 

I don't feel that way for anyone currently.

Me 11:39

 

**am i your one and only?**

**Миша 11:40**

 

**how sweet**

**Миша 11:40**

 

**love you too bro**

**Миша 11:40**

 

There were so many things wrong with that exchange. He thought he was so fucking smooth, coming in here and talking about our relationship. At first he made me flush a bright red and feel nice, but then he had to call me his bro and ruin everything. I thought maybe we could talk about emotions, as romantically attached adults do, but nope! We were just ‘bros’. Well, fuck that. 

 

Do not call me your fucking bro. 

Me 11:40

 

**why do you have a problem with it or something**

**Миша 11:40**

 

Being called ‘bro’ gives me flashbacks to the war. 

Me 11:41

 

**what the actual fuck beka**

**Миша 11:41**

 

**what are you smoking**

**Миша 11:41**

 

Exhaustion. 

Me 11:41

 

And Thor’s ponytail

Me 11:41

 

**how does one other than thor even get access to thors ponytail**

**Миша 11:42**

 

Be a hairdresser with high hopes?

Me 11:42

 

**them hopes better be as high as you are right now**

**Миша 11:42**

 

Bitch, please, I’m a fucking pro athlete and you think I’m dumb enough to high five some pot with my mouth? 

Me 11:42

 

**best thing ive read all day**

**Миша 11:42**

 

We texted for a little while longer before he had to go eat lunch with his parents, at which point I went to sleep. I had a dream that I was enslaved by an acoustic guitar who made me play the strings from the inside, only I was tiny and had to climb around on them like they were monkey bars. I fell down at some point and was suddenly an amish farmer who wanted to run really badly but I couldn't, and then all my fingers split in half, turned into worms, and then shrivelled up and died. I had a surprisingly easy life as a fingerless farmer. But my legs still weren't running and I still couldn't run away from this big thing that was coming to chase me. It made me feel shockwaves of heat throughout my body coming from an epicenter around the fourth vertebrae in my spine. It scared me so badly, whatever it was. I managed to grow my fingers back and climb into the TARDIS by the time I woke up. It also seemed that I had pissed the bed by the time I woke up, which was a rather unfortunate event. I was turning fifteen in two months and I had peed in my sleep. I didn't want to say anything, yet I knew I had to. I sat up, and cringed at the feeling. I hadn't worn underwear when I went to sleep, so my yoga pants were sticking to my skin in a very uncomfortable way. I wondered if you could see the outline of my dick in my pants like this. If so, the situation was very very bad. I peeled the blanket off of me, pretending not to notice the wet spot, and hung my torso off the bed. I had my suitcase stored underneath the bed, and I pulled it out to gather a pair of jeans and clean underwear. I changed, and got out of the bed. God, this was embarrassing. I looked up at the top bunk, where Leo was sleeping. 

I scoffed angrily at the floor, and rose onto my toes. I knocked on the side barrier of the bed. “ _ Leo, _ ” I whispered. He didn't wake up. I repeated the process three times until he rolled over. His mouth was open and he was drooling slightly. I knocked on the side of the bed again, and said his name louder this time. “ _ Leo, wake up! _ ” I laced my hand underneath the barrier on the side of the bed to shake his arm. It only took a few more minutes for him to wake up. 

“ _ What do you want? _ ” He asked drowsily. His eyes were shut and he was rolling onto his stomach.

“ _ I, um…I peed. _ ” 

“ _ Everybody pees, Bek, _ ” He groaned, and pulled one arm over his head. 

“ _ I-In the bed, _ ” I said through gritted teeth. He gave a sleepy little giggle. 

“ _ You peed in the be-ed, _ ” He sang softly. Even mostly asleep he sang perfectly. I felt the urge to pull his hair, as children did when they were young. Actually, when I was a little kid, it was more Aliya pulling on my hair, even though hers was longer. 

“ _ Shut up, _ ” I hissed, “ _ Help me out? _ ” He giggled softly, but then moved so that he was laying on his side and gazing at me with half-closed and somewhat glassy eyes. 

“ _ Yeah, yeah…Change your pants, there’s a spare comforter in the closet, _ ” He mumbled. I came down from the releve and turned around. The closet was by the door into the room, and as it turned out the spare comforter was on a shelf a meter above my head. I groaned, but made an attempt to jump and grab it. I got it on the second try. 

“ _ Your jumps are very athletic, _ ” Leo said. I turned around again, with the comforter all over me. It had unfolded while it was falling and was now a mess. He was sitting up in his bed now, resting his elbows on the guard rail. 

“ _ I wonder why, it’s not like I spend several hours a week jumping, _ ” I said. He rolled his eyes, and scooched himself over to the ladder, which he came down. He helped me take all the blankets, sheets, and what have you off of the mattress, which still had a wet spot on it. 

“ _ I feel like a five year old, _ ” I groaned. Leo laughed without opening his mouth. 

“ _ Happens to the best of us. _ ” The last time I had peed myself at night had been when I was eleven, and I was going to turn fifteen in two months. I wondered exactly how red my face was right about now. The warmth wasn't just in my cheeks, it was in my neck, and my chest, and my ears. I probably looked like I had had an unfortunate run in with several blush compacts. We carried the wet sheets and blankets to the laundry room, and put them in the washing machine. We sat on the floor while we waited, and I was only slightly unsettled by the fact that Leo didn't wear pants when he slept. Then again, he thought it was weird that I slept fully dressed, and then wore the clothes the next day. I didn't think it was too odd. It meant that I never had to wear pajamas, and there were probably some people out there who freaked out over pajamas, but I thought that they were entirely unnecessary. I just put on what I was going to wear the next day. Another bonus was that I never had to get dressed in a rush. We sat there in silence for a little while, before I asked Leo how Guang Hong was doing. 

“ _ Good. He, um, he got a vespa, which is cool, _ ” Leo said. He paused, and then said, “ _ We broke up. Communication is difficult when we’re ten thousand miles and fourteen hours apart. How do you always manage to stay on top of things with your family? _ ” I shrugged. 

“ _ It’s difficult, but there’s only twelve hours between Chicago and Almaty. And I’m kind of a freak when it comes to these things, _ ” I said. I was kind of a freak in general, though. I looked down at my watch. It was three twenty. “ _ It’s afternoon there now _ ,” I said, “ _ My sister is leaving the school, and so is my Misha, although he might stay for longer. My mom is still at work. And I’m sitting in a laundry room because I peed in the bed. _ ” I laughed softly. It was a strange life we found ourselves living. I would be coming home from school in twelve hours, and everyone at home would be asleep.

“ _ W-What about your dad? _ ” Leo asked. I sort of felt like I had been punched in the stomach, but I answered him anyway. 

“ _ M-My dad…I don't know where he is. He left our family when I was five, _ ” I told him. He frowned, and put a hand on my shoulder. It felt like I was being touched by a space alien or something, and not at all comforting, as it was probably intended to feel. 

“ _ That sucks. I’m sorry, _ ” He said. I shrugged him off. 

“ _ I don't care. It was a long time ago and I didn't know him very well. _ ” Leo shook his head. 

“ _ Everyone should be able to grow up with two parents. _ ”

“ _ You’re saying that because you grew up with two of the parents, _ ” I pointed out. He shrugged, and the left corner of his mouth dipped. At the same time, his left eyebrow rose. 

“ _ Maybe. But I’d still think that even if I hadn't, _ ” He said. I didn't know what to think about the way children were raised. I didn't know how to describe the way  _ I _ was raised. I guess, lonely? Mama was hardly ever home during the week. I mean, she was home in the mornings, but she was almost always asleep when we left for school. Ravil became a sort of commander in the mornings, although he did wind up arguing with Aliya a lot. She thought that he was too bossy, and he thought that she should just listen to him because he was the oldest and he had already completed fifth grade, so she should really just listen to him. I didn't need to be bossed around in the mornings. I ate breakfast and sat around for awhile until it was time to walk to school. In the afternoons, Mama came home from work at around seven thirty at night, and then we had dinner. Sometimes we fought before Mama came back home. Half of those sometimeses included resorting to fisticuffs. Aliya and Ravil were the ones who argued more often, seeing as I would usually be in my room or somewhere else that wasn't the center of chaos. Their fighting scared me, although I really should have been used to it. There was always fighting at home, although it wasn't always between the same people. I wanted to break down crying whenever people fought each other at home. 

I wondered if Ravil had noticed that I stole his Rubik’s cube two years ago, and if he would be mad at me about it. I wondered if he would shove me up against the wall and ask me where the goddamn Rubik’s cube was when I came home. I wondered if he would punch me in the ribs and ask me where it was until I gave it back. I wondered if he would still be dreaming of going to college when I went back home, and then I wondered if I would ever go back to Almaty. I was actually competing now, so what if I just lived my life half the world away from home and went back home when I was twenty five? Well, it would be awful. I didn't like speaking another language. I liked the city I was born in because I knew it. I didn't have a fucking clue what Chicago was like. I didn't know shit about where certain streets were or what was on them. I barely knew the name of the street I lived on, when I could probably navigate my portion of Almaty better than a GPS. They didn't know the stealth routes that people learned from exploring. There was an alleyway that lead to another alley and yet another alley, and going through this mess of alleyways cut off ten minutes from my usual walk to Misha’s house. It was a lot less of a mental stress to be able to speak the language I was coded in than having to run two or sometimes three languages at the same time. Knowing multiple languages sucked. I had the tendency to forget words a lot. I didn't know what the fuck  **pandamonium** was in either English or Kazakh, yet I remembered it in Russian, and last week I had tried to say recreational drugs but couldn't remember the word recreational, so I said  _ lazy drugs _ . I felt like I didn't have to have my guard 100% up twenty four seven at home. The short version of the feeling was homesickness and the long version of the feeling would include one of the nights I had spent in the bathtub. The most recent of which was like I was drowning and someone was stabbing me in the heart, prying my ribs out of my chest and then playing them like a xylophone, all topped with a feeling of intense worthlessness and the emotional equivalent of a pulled muscle. And then just add the physical aches in my legs and arms and there you have my midnight bathtub suffering. I also cried, so there was that. If we were counting. 

I wondered what my dad was doing right now, and if he was even still alive. He could totally be dead for all I knew. I wondered if he was still the same guy or if he had changed. I wanted to call him a son of a bitch but I didn't know his mother, so it wasn't fair to call her a bitch. I had certainly learned some things from my dad that weren't true, though. I thought he was a liar in my earlier years, but now I had realized that he was just an awful person. I wanted to cry, although I didn't want to cry alone. I wished that I had Misha here with me. He could give the best of hugs. I wanted him to hold me while we slept. That sounded really nice.  

“ _ I’m going back to sleep, _ ” I told Leo. He nodded.

“ _ Probably a good idea, _ ” He said. Neither of us moved for a little while. I looked over at him, and the two of us made eye contact. I couldn't stand the pitiful look in his eyes. I got up and left, walking heel ball toe back to the room we shared. I pulled the comforter onto my bunk and made myself a little burrito. Then I realized that I could feel the wet spot and switched to the floor. I brought my pillow to the floor too, and there I stayed for the next couple of hours. I pretended that I wasn't awake for about an hour after I woke up again. I had to go to the rink this morning, which I didn't particularly want to do because I had already woken up feeling like shit twice today and I was in the type of mood where laying around and trying to forget about my existence was therapeutic. I went skating, and was on the bus to meet JJ for whatever shopping it was that he needed to do at one fifteen. I stared out the window, although my face was reflected on the window. I looked like a white emo boy. I had a fringe that poked out of the black beanie I was wearing, black eyeliner, black skinny jeans, a black undershirt, and a monochromatic flannel. The whole nine yards. Maybe I had made a fashion error. It was too late now, though, seeing as I was already on the bus. Another weird thing about America was that they didn't use trains. They used busses. It was such an oddball country. Some people thought that America was stupid, but I thought it was just a depressed teenager who thinks they’re more tough than they actually are in a room full of people who have their shit slightly more together than the angry teenager. It was probably a nice place to people who were from there, but, I didn't like being this far from home. 

Shortly after I sat down, my phone got a notification from Instagram. Yuri had made a post. It was a selfie of him and Viktor Nikiforov (who was not tagged) and Puma Tiger Scorpion. Yuri was smirking at the camera. He was wearing one of the official team jackets, with his cat tucked inside. His head was poking out of the collar. Viktor was grinning in a way that was different from the way he grinned in photo shoots. He was also wearing one of the team Russia jackets, although his was different. It reminded me of the stripe on the left side Belarusian flag, and had a big RU on the front. The caption stated that Yuri had just gotten his team jacket and was excited to finally be in the game. I liked the photo. It was a good picture of both of them, and the cat looked good too. 

I got off the bus at the downtown stop. Busses were stressful, because I had to actually pay attention to where I was instead of just waiting for the right stop to come along. When I got off the bus, I looked around for the Starbucks JJ said that we would meet up at. It wasn't exactly hard because he was already there, head down and looking at his phone. He also looked like a white emo boy, although less so. He was wearing a Gryffindor hat, a lumberjack flannel, black jeans, and biker boots that made him even taller than normal. The guy was already 170 centimeters tall, what more did he need? To be 174 centimeters, I supposed. I waited to say hello until I was standing less than a meter away from him. 

“ _ Hi, _ ” I said, in my best voice for conveying a dead soul. The first thing that happened were his eyes widened, and then he shouted. Although these two events were almost simultaneous. Next, he jumped and his phone fell out of his hand. 

“ _ Otabek! You gave me a heart attack! _ ” He shouted, putting a hand over his heart. 

“ _ Do you need an ambulance? _ ” I joked. He continued to breathe a little heavier than usual for a couple seconds.

“ _ Nope! So, um, let’s go! I wanted to get a new calculator, ‘cause my old one is broken, a fidget cube, and one of those phone charger on the go thingies, _ ” He said. 

“ _ What’s a fidget cube? _ ” I asked. 

“ _ It’s this cube with a bunch of things on it. My mom told me to get one to help occupy my brain, _ ” He explained. I nodded. I might want to buy a fidget cube as well, then. We did not end up completing the required shopping. JJ got distracted by a Barnes and Noble, so we went in and started looking for books. We somehow wound up in the travel section. 

“ _ Hey, hey, Bek, look at this! _ ” He said, tapping me on the shoulder. I was looking at a book that was about the fungi local to the American midwest, which I dropped as soon as he tapped me. 

“ _ What? _ ” I asked, and turned around. He was holding a book with a picture of a lake surrounded by mountains and coniferous trees. The lake was incredibly blue and shaped like a dog’s head. The title of the book was Canada. 

“ _ I hold Canada in my hands. I am it’s new king. _ ” I scoffed, and bent down to pick up the guide to fungi. 

“ _ Does that mean that I am the new Lord of the Fungi? _ ” I asked. JJ nodded. 

“ _ Yeah, chou. Be that fungi lord. _ ” He paused for a moment, before starting to wiggle his eyebrows. He leaned against the bookshelf next to me.

“ _ Mon petit chou, would you say that you are a…fun guy? _ ” He asked, in a weird accent that made him sound like a pirate. 

“ _ No, I’m boring, _ ” I said. I mean, maybe on the grand spectrum of what makes an interesting life, I wasn't so boring, but in the little details, I wasn't all that interesting. Look at general life experiences. I had lived in three countries. I knew three languages, although languages were all weird and confusing and fuck verbs. Seriously, fuck verbs. I hate verbs. I sort of knew how to ride a bike. I had never been drunk or high. Smoking Thor’s ponytail doesn't quite get you buzzed. I had never been swimming in an ocean. I had never ridden a horse or played monopoly, or looked at the stars just because they were there and so was I, although my excuse for that one is that I’ve always lived in a city where seeing the stars at night is impossible. I had never looked at the clouds and assigned them shapes, nor had I been to an amusement park or seen a rainbow. I had never been kissed on the mouth, and I had never had a boyfriend or a girlfriend. I tried really hard to stay of a small weight, but my thighs still touched each other sometimes when I walked. I was currently mad at my thighs because they had been getting big lately. And apparently it was weird that I was a teenage boy who had never masturbated. 

“ _ Yeah, like being trilingual is boring, _ ” JJ said. He shouldn't be talking. He was bilingual. 

“ _ Mon petit chou isn't English, _ ” I pointed out, “ _ What does it even mean? _ ” I already knew what it meant. I was being social, though, and I wanted JJ to think I was avidly curious about learning another goddamn language when I couldn't even translate the word pellucid into Russian or English yet.  

“ _ My little cabbage, _ ” He said.

“ _ I’m not a fucking cabbage, Jean-Jacques, _ ” I said, “ _ I have no relation to vegetables unless they’re in me. _ ” 

“ _ Kinky. _ ” 

“ _ I-I meant in my stomach! _ ” I spat. JJ laughed. 

“ _ I know, mon petit chou. _ ” 

“ _ Stop calling me that. _ ”

“ _ Seulement si vous m'appelez le roi du Canada _ ,” He sang. Fuck him for sounding like Justin Beiber without having to gratuitously autotune his voice. I wished that I could sing. In fact, I wish I had talent. I had skating competitively for now, but for now was probably ten more years, maybe eleven. Some people had to retire at younger ages because they got injured in a way that they couldn't recover from. That was what I was afraid of, personally. What if I busted a hip at age seventeen and  _ that _ was how people thought of me for the rest of time? A no hit wonder and a burnout? However, I couldn't seem to get very far no matter how hard I worked. I was a run of the mill skater. Hell, JJ could moonwalk on ice, other people I was competing against could do quads, and Yuri Plisetsky had a video on his Instagram of himself doing a quad salchow. And then there was me. I could do a cartwheel on ice and look like a mess while doing it. 

“ _ You’re full of shit, _ ” I told JJ. We continued to putz around the Barnes and Noble until JJ bought a fidget cube. I did too, as well as a book called The Picture of Dorian Gray and a pack of playing cards. JJ asked if I was planning on learning any magic tricks, and when I said no, he ‘dazzled’ me with his ‘ability’ to do ‘magic’. He was very bad at his tricks, and didn't even know how to shuffle. After leaving the Barnes and Noble, we continued to walk around for a little while in search of an electronic appliances store while JJ told me about Izzie. Apparently they had gone to school together before he came to America. Her parents lived in a house that was really big and had servant stairs, which I thought was really cool. Everyone had imagined themselves as rich and powerful nobility at some point or another, but actually living in a house that might have once had rich and powerful people living in it would be really cool. Izzie was an artist, and she wanted to go to art school when she got older. JJ showed me a drawing on his phone that she had sent, and it was really good. It was a monochrome pencil drawing of an old person, done in a portrait view. The silver hair looked like real hair, and she was really good at blending her colors. She also worked out a lot and had tried taking a few ballet classes with JJ in the past but she had ultimately been a terrible dancer. Speaking of dancing, I was a bit jealous of JJ’s ability to dance. He had a pair of heels that he had danced in when he was training in Colorado, wherever that was, and he actually managed to dance decently in them. I had tried on his heels once and rolled my ankle. His feet were fucking enormous, though. I had tried on his high heeled shoes once and rolled my ankle. His feet were fucking enormous, though. He had told me that he someday wished to acquire and then perform in pointe shoes, but that it would have to be after he retired from skating. Dancing en pointe sounded like a fucking nightmare to me. Then again, I wasn't really doing ballet as much anymore. I thought that jazz and hip hop was more of a fit for my personal style of dance. It allowed for more natural movements and was a lot easier on the arms. I had also purchased a pair of tap shoes that I hardly ever wore, but that was beside the point. 

It wasn't long before we started looking for a place to get lunch. I was dying of hunger. I hadn't eaten anything since six forty five and it was currently two thirty. It was only a little bit longer before I spotted a restaurant that amused me. It was called Jimmy John’s, and it has the logo of the restaurant above the door. The logo was two Js, and upon seeing it, I grabbed JJ’s arm and pointed it out. 

“ _ We should eat there, Jimmy John, _ ” I said. He took one look at the restaurant and laughed softly. 

“ _ Clever, _ ” He said. We crossed the street and got a table. Apparently the Jimmy John’s was a sandwich restaurant. We sat at a table near the window, and I took it as a chance to people watch, although I quickly became distracted by a Mountain Dew Red bottle that had been dropped and was now in the middle of the street. I watched it get jostled and bumped around by cars while we ate. JJ thought I was ridiculous for being so obsessed with a bottle. I couldn't help but see the bottle as a metaphor. The thing was, it was a metaphor that I didn't understand. I think that’s what life is, to be honest. A metaphor that nobody understands, maybe not even God. 

JJ kept talking about the little things in his life, like how he was annoyed by his own profligate spending and about how it was so hard to be an adult. His parents paid for him to live in an apartment by the train station, and was sort of pissed by that because he could never get any sleep. How he managed to train so hard on so little sleep, I’ll never know. But his bigger concern was that he was so lonely. He didn't have a roommate, because his parents were paranoid about their sixteen year old son living with anyone else, but he wanted one. I kind of wanted to become his roommate. It would be a lot less stressful only having one other person in the house, as opposed to the current six people I lived with, and JJ would also be less lonely. Win-win, right? Although maybe it wasn't the best idea, because I would definitely feel the need to pay his parents for letting me stay there.

The time we spent in the JJ restaurant was nice. I felt happy in the time that we sat around after finishing the sandwiches. I kept making jokes about how this was JJ as a restaurant, and that he should quit skating to become an entrepreneur of sandwiches. I also may have joked that we were inside him. I regretted saying that one because of how awkward it sounded. JJ thought I was making an innuendo, which I was not. He just had sex on the brain. 

When I got on the bus home, I got a notification on my cell phone from Skype. 

 

**hey i got an instagram**

**Миша** •  **3:28**

 

**my name is eyitsyaboymisha**

**Миша** •  **3:28**

 

**follow me so that i feel better about the number of followers i have**

**Миша** •  **3:28**

 

**so far it’s just kyushee**

**Миша** •  **3:28**

 

**who you should also follow. her name is bumblekyushee29**

**Миша** •  **3:28**

 

I followed both accounts, although only Kyushee had anything on hers. There was one picture, which was of her and a little boy I didn't recognize. He couldn't have been more than ten years old, and was playing with her dress in the picture. I found myself to be dying inside when Misha posted a picture of himself and Kyushee. He had four earrings, three of which were all on the same ear, and was kissing the top of her head while she showed off a tattoo of a rose on the back of her hand. The caption read ‘My first customer.’ I died even more when he told me he loved me that night. I was entirely confused about how he seemed to have a girlfriend yet also seemed to be flirting with me. I still didn't get any answers, and I wouldn't for a few years. I questioned everything over the course of the next few weeks, although I died again on the twenty second of September. It was on that day that I got a phone call from Ravil. He wanted to inform me that Zhuldyz had changed her mind about the pregnancy. She was going to college, and had decided that she couldn't have a baby during all of that. So she had told Ravil that she wanted him to keep their baby, and that they could raise it together once she graduated. But that meant, for now at least, that the end of the world was due to come crashing down on our heads in December, right in the middle of the skating season. And on December eighteenth, a week after I had come back to America from Japan with a bronze medal in my suitcase and complete and utter admiration for Yuri Plisetsky, I became an uncle. I had a niece. Her name was Samiya, and she was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. Unfortunately, I couldn't go home to see her after she was born. I had to stay in Chicago for the winter, training. I used two things as my motivation to train harder. Samiya and Yuri. I wanted Samiya to have a good life, and if her parents couldn't give that to her, well, then I would. And then there was Yuri. I had been floored in Fukuoka by how a tiny twelve year old twig had been able to win his first ever Grand Prix Final. So, basically, I was fueled by the need to give Samiya a good life, and by another need, although this one was to beat Yuri Plisetsky. Maybe then I could talk to him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry that this chapter took so long. on the bright side, it's like 10,000 words. both me and my friend who is editing will be on vacation next week and then at school for the next nine months of the year, so i won't have as much time in the day to write. i hope that this chapter invoked an emotional reaction. my editing pal thought that the texting conversations were particularly funny. 
> 
> (paraduxkys.tumblr.com)


	18. 2014

2014

 

There were times I thought my friends were dumbasses. There were other times when I _knew_ they were dumbasses. And even still, there were times when they were geniuses in their dumbassery. These were the rarest of times. My friends made up a small army of exactly three, although since a certain redhead wasn't exactly in the same hemisphere at the time, he wasn't included in the current failure of common sense in the heads of Jean-Jacques and Leo, although I was fairly certain that Misha and his other friends were not exempt from being idiots. In the span of the past year, Leo and I had grown closer through music. Apparently, he also had a soft spot for Panic! At The Disco and I had learned that Broadway wasn't entirely show tunes. In The Heights, Hedwig and the Angry Inch, and Heathers were some shows that I didn't hate. But then there were musicals like The Sound of Music, Anything Goes, and Alice in Wonderland that made me want to deny ever listening to Broadway soundtracks. Leo also liked the poppier stuff, and occasionally listened to rap. Jean-Jacques liked pop music as well, but he liked the crappy eighties kind. It wasn't even the good shit, like the Eurythmics. He liked Journey, George Michaels, Whitney Houston, and Michael Jackson. In my opinion, he should’ve tried listening to Queen and Ministry, although they spanned multiple decades so saying that they were eighties bands wasn't necessarily true.

In general, we had a difficult time deciding on what music was good and what music was bad. I had pitched a few Russian pop songs that I liked into the pit of songs, but they were rejected because Leo wanted to be able to sing along to the list of songs we were compiling and he couldn't sing in Russian. Somehow, one song by some K-Pop band made the list of songs, as did this one very melancholy pop song that was in Spanish. However, our playlist wasn't complete until I added half of Misha’s favorite rap songs and a bunch of songs that were memes.

We had decided that creating a playlist was necessary because Jean-Jacques was smart for a dumb guy. This playlist would save the money that would be spent on data roaming charges that would have been used had we used YouTube to play music, and it could be like a souvenir for all of us when we no longer lived in Chicago. JJ himself was leaving Chicago to train in Vancouver next year, where his parents lived, and I had taken him up on his offer to join him. Only I was going to do it next year, which was when I planned on starting to compete in seniors. The coach that we three shared at the moment had told me that I was near the breaking point, and that having competition that was more difficult to bear would help me improve, but that I might not be ready just quite yet. So I thought that I would indeed go to Canada for the 2015-2016 season. I had been given the opportunity to train under incredibly successful former skaters, who were in the midst of creating a family dynasty, and one does not simply pass that sort of thing by. I had also decided that I would live in an apartment, like how JJ was doing now. I was definitely pleased about the idea living alone. I didn't want to have to meet more new people and try to figure them all out again. The whole figuring people out process was long, difficult, and boring at times. I could have some time to figure out cooking. Maybe I would teach myself how to use the tap shoes I bought. I would have a place to use the metronome I had brought from Kazakhstan but never used because I was afraid it would annoy everyone within earshot to the point of me becoming extinct. I wondered if Ravil would kill me if I turned the metronome on and let it tick. Maybe he would kill me twice if I started to sing off beat with it. But anyway, Jean-Jacques was going to Vancouver in nine days and I was going in a year. That much was set in stone. JJ had also had another brilliant-but-not-so-brilliant idea that Leo was completely on board with. I wasn't as much on board but I said yes to the plan anyway. Jean-Jacques had suggested we sneak away to New York City. And that was why we were compiling a playlist. See, none of us could drive, although I was interested in driving a motorbike. I thought that driving one was incredibly cool, and that it would be much better than driving a car. Bikes were cheaper than cars, and while they were more dangerous, I would get to feel the wind on my face. If I were to drive a car, I would have to stick my head out the window like a dog to do that, and sticking your head out the window of the car while you were driving was the perfect recipe for being sent to an early grave.

I was incredibly distracted by the idea of sneaking away to New York City, if you couldn't tell. The three of us had actually started to make serious plans. Jean-Jacques said that he wanted to leave around his birthday, which would be his seventeenth. He was going to go to Canada on the twenty third of July, so we needed to have ample time between the fifteenth and the twenty third to get up to some bullshit in New York. I had never been to New York, but I had obviously heard of it. I had heard that it was an incredibly American city and that it was the cultural capital of the world. Now, how exactly did those things intersect? America wasn't exactly known for its accepting nature, although it’s citizens did seem to be quite proud of their half black president. But anyway, aside from Barack Obama, there were a lot of very important things that needed to be done. We had split the tasks between us, and I had been on transportation, food, and hotels. All the important shit, if you ask me. What were Jean-Jacques and Leo even doing, you might ask? Jean-Jacques had appointed himself the bankmaster, despite being absolutely balls at math. Then again, none of us were particularly good at math. But if I had to choose, I would make myself the King of Cash. Jean-Jacques was also making himself in charge of parents and concerned adults, which I thought was a good idea. He had okay social skills, and probably wouldn't stutter for half an hour before getting to the point like I would, and he wouldn't make small talk with the adults that weren't calling for him, like Leo would. He also wanted to be in charge of the playlist we were compiling so that we could all have something to listen to, but Leo and I had intervened and made sure he would not have us on a steady stream of his five favorite songs for a week.

Leo had taken on creating our itinerary and keeping track of our suitcases. The former would probably be easier in the end, but he was currently somewhat pissed off about it. He wanted to see Wicked, but we didn't have tickets. I told him that we should just sneak into the theater but he wanted to be smart about it. Sneaking into the theater was the smart thing to do. Jean-Jacques wanted to go to Coney Island and both of them wanted to visit Central Park. I wanted to go to a concert, the beach, and a Mongolian restaurant. I hadn't had Mongolian food since I was four, and since it was eleven years ago and at a time when I was quite young, I don't recall a thing from the day. I only recall the legend. Leo was stressed out by having to create the itinerary, but I was even more stressed with the hotel business. Finally, I just sort of gave up and decided that we would get a crappy motel room when the time came. And since I had no idea what to do for food, I decided that for the twenty three hour bus ride, I would buy a bunch of junk food before we left. It was almost never that we got to eat junk food, and while eating a bunch of unhealthy shit at peak training time was not a good idea, neither was taking a week off to putz around New York, but we were doing both anyway.

It was Jean-Jacques’ birthday on the day we set out. I had the brilliant idea to sneak out the fire escape and meet up at a Jimmy John’s, but Leo thought that climbing down the fire escape with three suitcases was dangerous and a bad idea. He was all for the Jimmy John’s meet up, though. After about twenty jokes in a row, Jean-Jacques became annoyed by them and probably low key hated me for all the times I’ve called him Jimmy John, and the one time I did an Irish accent and called him Seamus Sean. That joke wasn't funny because my fake accent was bad and it had to be explained. See, Seamus is the Irish form of James, and Jimmy is a nickname for James. Sean is the Irish form of John, and there lies the joke. It’s funny, right? Wrong. It’s not funny even if I don't have to explain it. Then again, I’m not what the teens call a ‘funny person’ because I don't make very many sexual jokes. It honestly took me way too long to get a joke that was made last year at school. The joke was told by some asshole in my algebra class. He had said _You are what you eat, but I’m still not a cat_ , and then he also continued to talk about wet tacos _._ It was badly explained to me by Jean-Jacques. Well, they could all forgive me for not knowing all the American slang, nor how aroused vaginas work. I had never, in my life, ever been in a sex ed class that went deeper than the basic biology and I had also never masturbated, so how would I know about semen or the female equivalent? Maybe I was just boring. Or undereducated. Or both.

But regardless of how boring and dumb I was, Leo insisted that we sneak out the front door. It was a dumb idea. We could get caught, or worse, noticed. And maybe then we would hurriedly try to explain what we were doing in the big kitchen slash dining room slash living room in the middle of the night, and whoever else was there would believe whatever lies we told them like in a sitcom. But no, apparently the fire escape wasn't safe enough for Leo, so we were going to pull the much riskier operation of sneaking out the front door. In my head, I had this fantastical idea of climbing up the fire escape and jumping around to other buildings, Matrix-style, and then jumping down from the roof of the Jimmy John’s without dying and effectively scaring Jean-Jacques so much he crapped himself. The only thing wrong with that plan was that if Jean-Jacques shat himself, we would need to waste time finding him a clean pair of pants, and maybe people would assume that we were up to something different than what we were actually doing. I mean, one could think we were heading to a crack den. We had suitcases, backpacks, and had dressed in black hoodies and jeans so as not to raise suspicion. As it turned out, that was the perfect way to look like you were off to a drug deal or something else you wouldn't want to get caught doing.

Leo was not only afraid of the fire escape, (I had pointed out that he wouldn't feel that way if the building was on fire. He wondered if I was an arsonist.) but also pissed at me for making his job as the creator of the itinerary very difficult.

“ _You want to go to a concert? Whose concert?_ ” He asked.

“ _It doesn't matter,_ ” I had mumbled. I was busy figuring out how we were going to fit the travelling into one day when Jean-Jacques thought he couldn't bear the idea of sitting still for three hours, much less twenty four. It annoyed me that Leo thought I could do the appropriate research for finding and booking a bus ticket that would please our price range and desires to walk at the same time on a cell phone. The shortest one I had found took nineteen hours, but had no stops. Another one took twenty seven and had five stops but passed through Canada. I had finally decided on one that took twenty three hours and had stops in Indianapolis, Columbus, Pittsburgh, and Philadelphia. The planning of this little road trip inspired me to purchase a road map of the continental United States. It is a very confusing map, and I have no certainty if it will ever be used again. At least I know in detail where every major highway in America is now. Although that’s slightly less important than learning where all the states are. I could’ve done it all faster if I had been allowed to use the laptop Leo had ‘borrowed’ from Sanchia.

“ _A_ _concert. Just_ _a_ _concert? Any old one will do? Yeah, thanks for specifying,_ ” He grumbled.

“ _I want the experience,_ ” I said.

“ _You’re so extra,_ ” He huffed.

“L _ike you aren't?_ ” I challenged. He rolled his eyes and went back to the planning without responding. I nearly wept tears of joy when he told me I was going to see Lindsey Stirling, and then they instantly turned to tears of anger and sadness when he informed me that I would be a month late. Seriously, she had been in New York on 18 June. We were going to the Katy Perry show instead. I found the sound of her voice to be grating. But hey, I had been vague about the whole going-to-a-concert thing, so I kind of deserved to get an artist I didn't like. In fact, the concert tickets were one of the most important things we had brought with us. They were put in a Ziploc bag, which was currently in the smallest pocket of Leo’s backpack. Concert going was what we were going to do on the last day, though, and then Jean-Jacques was going to go to the John F. Kennedy airport and fly to Vancouver while Leo and I took the busses back to Chicago. That was the end of the plan. We were only on step one, which was to get to the Jimmy John’s without detection. We held our suitcases above our heads as we transported them out of the apartment, and I couldn't help but notice that Leo was walking louder than I was. It was because in April, the month that we got training off, I had decided that I would learn how to jump without making a noise when I landed. It was a useless skill but it meant that I was good at sneaking around. Besides, what good is a skill like that if all you can do with it is show off at parties or wherever it is people show off the weird things they can do? Yeah, I’ll be sure to show my partner how I can jump without making a noise with the landing the next time I go on a date. Or rather, on the occasion that I find somebody to date.

But anyway, once we got the suitcases out of the door, it was pretty much smooth sailing from there on out. That is, until we had to walk to fucking Lincoln Park in the middle of the night. Okay, it was more like ten thirty, but by the time we got there, it was eleven. Maybe it would’ve been a better idea to get a bus or a taxi or something, but I didn't have a bus pass and Leo didn't bring his along, so we would have had to pay two dollars each to get on the bus. That may not sound like a lot, but we had one thousand and thirty six dollars for the trip, although most of it came from Jean-Jacques and Leo. That gave us each three hundred and forty five dollars, and if we were spreading that out over nine days, we would have a maximum of thirty eight dollars per day. And I was paranoid about spending money. Well, it was less that I was paranoid about spending money, and more that I was paranoid about making impulse purchases. I had bought a pair of tap shoes and a damn plague doctor mask just because I felt like it. I didn't even take tap, for God’s sake! And I tried not to buy the expensive eyeliner when I went out to buy mine, but the good stuff wasn't cheap. It was around twelve dollars for a decent tube of liquid liner, but since I somehow managed to care about spending twelve dollars on eyeliner when I flipped fifty dollars on a pair of tap shoes that I didn't actually need, it was no big deal. Maybe I would take up tap when I went to Canada.

“ _Hey guys!_ ” Jean-Jacques shouted, waving his arms about. I wished he would be quieter. While there were always going to be people who were walking around cities in the middle of the night, I had no desire to be one who attracted attention to himself.

“ _Shut up,_ ” I whispered under my breath. I don't think anyone heard.

“ _Hello, Jimmy John,_ ” Leo shouted in greeting. Jean-Jacques dropped his arms to his sides and deflated.

“ _Don't call me that, man,_ ” He complained. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

 _"Oh, um, do you want me to carry your suitcase?_ ” Leo offered. He sounded somewhat awkward. Jean-Jacques shook his head, and removed his hands from his pockets and grabbed the handle on the largest suitcase known to man. Seriously, you could fit a lot of babies in that suitcase.

“ _Nah, it’s not as heavy as it looks. Besides, it’s got wheels. It’s practically the Lightning McQueen of suitcases,_ ” Jean-Jacques said. Leo laughed softly at his mention of Lightning McQueen, while I wondered who the hell had the first name ‘lightning’. Maybe it was a new hipster trend to name your kids after random shit in nature. After all, in that one episode of Glee, Finn had wanted to name his child Drizzle.

“ _We should probably get going,_ ” Leo pointed out, “ _Doesn't the last bus leave at eleven thirty or something?_ ”

“ _Yes,_ ” I confirmed. We began the walk to the bus station, and got there at eleven nineteen, according to my watch. Jean-Jacques’s phone claimed that it was eleven twenty one. It was full of bullshit. In the little waiting period between getting everything with the tickets sorted out and actually getting on the bus, Leo texted his aunt that the three of us were at a midnight movie. He had already told her that, which was our excuse for leaving. He was currently telling her that we had changed our plans and that we were going to spend the night at Jean-Jacques’s dorm, and then that we would go straight to the rink in the morning. It would buy us our travel day, at least. I was curious as to what he would say when his family got curious in two days when we didn't come home from the rink. His aunt didn't respond. She was probably asleep. I felt all tingly and buzzy, like my insides were carbonated. The whole premise of the trip we were about to take had me that excited. After I bought and doled out the tickets, Jean-Jacques requested that we take a group selfie and put it on Instagram.

“ _That’s a bad idea. What if people see it?_ ” I pointed out. He rolled his eyes.

“ _That’s kind of the point, mon petit chou._ ”

“ _He means, what if your parents, or my parents, or Coach Liza sees the picture and then we get in trouble and hauled back to wherever before we’re going to be anyway,_ ” Leo pointed out. We took the selfie anyway, and Jean-Jacques promised that it wouldn't see the light of day until after the trip was long complete. At eleven twenty seven, we got on the bus. Jean-Jacques was the most excited, running up the steps into the bus first. He was shortly followed by Leo, and then by me. I actually walked onto the bus. We made our way to the very back row, which was shared by a bus bathroom and three seats in a row. While Jean-Jacques had been the most enthusiastic thus far, he didn't want to be by the window. Leo and I settled the matter between us via a rock paper scissors match. I won, although he said that he would get to sit by the window after we stopped in Indianapolis. I wondered if he would even be awake then. As the one who had been put in charge of figuring out the transportation for this trip, I had come to know that it would be four thirty when we got to Indianapolis. I thought that it was probable that I would be awake, because if sleeping in airplanes was shitty, sleeping in a bus couldn't be all that much better. In fact, I counted on it to be worse. Besides, he could have the window seat at eight, when we got to Columbus.

Almost as soon as we sat down, Jean-Jacques pulled a camera out of his backpack. He turned it on and flipped out a little screen from the side.

“ _What are you doing?_ ” Leo asked, yawning. Jean-Jacques turned the camera to face him.

“ _I am making one of those found footage films. Like Earth to Echo,_ ” He explained. The way he talked made him seem like an asshole who thinks that they’re better than everyone else even when they’re saying something like ‘the sky is blue’. I bet he thought he was going to be so cool and make it big in the movie business after posting a crappily edited compilation video to YouTube or something. He was seventeen and one of the biggest skaters in the senior circuit, what more did he want?

“ _Dumbass,_ ” I mumbled. The camera was on me in seconds. I raised a hand over my face. “ _Don't film me, I look ugly right now,_ ” I said. Jean-Jacques thrust the camera into my face. It was so up in my business I worried if I might damage the lense. “ _This movie is going to suck, you know._ ”

“ _It’s gonna be great, because I’m the king and I’m good at things,_ ” He explained, as if simply having confidence in himself would be all it took to do something. Yeah, right, I could have the confidence to try and moonwalk, but that didn't mean I could actually do it, much less do it well.

“ _Everyone’s good at something,_ ” Leo pointed out. I shook my head.

“ _Fetuses,_ ” I told him, inadvertently beginning a conversation about abortions. I thought that fetuses weren't people until their brains existed, Jean-Jacques thought that they were always people, and Leo was somewhere in between. I found it ridiculous that three cells clinging to each other counted as a human person. Jean-Jacques wondered how I could think that. And then, of course, we got onto the topic of what it was to be human, and the ‘meaning of life’ conversation rolled in like a fog. Fog was weird in the way that you could see what was around you but only for a couple meters. Maybe that was how it felt when people who needed glasses weren't wearing them. Talking about life in the unholiest hours of the morning was weird. I was really tired out by it. Or maybe I was tired because I had had training all day. It was most definitely that one, although we had purchased some of the forbidden coffee at the bus station, shortly after taking the selfies. It was disgusting. If I hadn't been planning on staying awake for two straight days, then I wouldn't have bought the coffee. I had a weird sleep, where I didn't get any rest but my eyes were closed and my brain was effectively off. It was several hours later, when I felt something wet on the side of my neck, that I woke up. I was willing to ignore it, but it was starting to itch. I wasn't sure how that worked, but I was just sort of overcome by a need to wipe my neck dry so that I could go back to this nice little daydream I had been having. I was eating an apple that had been cut up into little cubes. I loved apples as a kid, but I wasn't as fond of them anymore. I lifted my hand to the side of my neck, and my hand came into contact with Jean-Jacques’ hand.

“ _The fuck?_ ” I mumbled.

“ _Sorry, chou, I didn't mean to wake you up. Well, I did. But not in a weird way. Even though I did. Anyway! Um, do you have any food?_ ” He asked, pointing the camera at me.

“ _No, sorry. And turn the damn camera off. You’ll kill the battery._ ”

“ _It’s my movie,_ ” He said, “ _And you don't look entirely ugly right now, so you have no excuse._ ” I pulled my hood up over my face. I sort of wished I still had hair long enough to cover a sizeable portion of my face. I had gotten it cut last winter. It made me look younger than I was, although if somebody saw me in the street they would probably think I was around twelve. I was getting taller, but there were middle schoolers taller than me. I would know, I go to school with them. I personally don't think it’s fair that someone who is twelve can be 178 centimeters tall. Then again, Cory was a basketball player, so she was sort of supposed to be tall as all fuck.

“ _Lies!_ ” I shouted, earning a dirty look from the old lady sitting in front of us. She had eye bags so intense they could have been tattooed on her face.

“ _Your skin is clear, for the most part! I’d murder for skin like that!_ ” Jean-Jacques said in response. He leaned closer to me, causing Leo, who was currently using his shoulder as a pillow, to fall to the side. He looked half dead.

“ _Can I go back to sleep now?_ ” I asked. I missed the Misha.

“ _Yer friggen beautiful!_ ” Jean-Jacques said squeakily, his voice going up and sounding like a vibrato being played on a violin.

“ _And now I will fucking sleep! Goodnight!_ ” I hissed, and looked out the window. We cruised along the highway, everything outside jet black except for the lights of the other cars and other such things that lay in the distance. Car watching didn't get boring as fast as you’d think, but when it did, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and opened up Instagram. I was somewhat annoyed about the travelling because I wouldn't be able to tell what time it was at home for some of the trip. The bus was probably going southeast at the moment, and also still in the Chicago time zone, but what about when we got into the blurry areas of Ohio and Pennsylvania? I honestly thought that time zones were bullshit, but necessary. Time is a person’s relation to the sun, so my personal time would be different from Jean-Jacques’s, if not only by milliseconds. But if we were milliseconds apart, surely the twelve hours separating me from the people I loved were only twelve hours on a clock. Clocks were great, but the idea of time zones was awful. I kind of wanted to have a sundial when I got older, but who the hell carries around a sundial in their pockets? Nobody, because a sundial that small would be grossly inaccurate. My time related angst aside, it was time to lowkey Instagram stalk my friends. And Yuri. Although he was kind of like an Internet friend. I just didn't interact with him. I didn't know what to say, you know? If I told him that I was sort of a fan, I might get lumped in with the other fans of his that were somewhat creepy. He had a small battalion of brainwashed followers. I hadn't even known that figure skating was so important to some people until I sort of stalked some of his followers on Instagram. It would’ve been around noon in Saint Petersburg, and then nearly three pm in Almaty, meaning that it would be the perfect time to check in on the people I followed. Well, three of them. Leo was asleep, and Jean-Jacques had started playing with his phone. He was lucky he didn't have to explain his mysterious nine-day absence to anyone. His parents would never know that he snuck away to New York City. Then again, neither would mine. My mom would never know and my dad…Well, he probably didn't even know that I was even in America. I pretended that I had run away from home, and that I was trying to make it big in New York. I was en route to audition for Juilliard, where I would be granted admittance and become an internationally famous dancer by the time I was thirty five and my dad would notice that I actually was good at dancing. Of course, that was the fairy tale ending. In the real story, I don’t get into Juilliard and I become an off-Broadway choreographer who drank his sorrows away and eventually moved back home to live with his mother. I would never be able to prove that I was good at dancing, even as I was in the odd music video here and there. Then again, who said I wanted to go to Juilliard? I wanted to dance, sure, but the more important thing was everything wonderful and terrible that came from figure skating, like the way my entire bottom half ached and it hurt to kick things. I was entirely ready for a break, and it would be wonderful if only I wouldn't hate myself for trying to be less health conscious and not doing the various little exercises I did outside of skating every day. Wasn't a vacation supposed to be fun?

I continued to look at Yuri’s Instagram, even after Jean-Jacques put his camera away. He had made three new posts since yesterday. The first was a photoset made of two posts of it’s own. The first picture of him standing in front of a mirror with his phone in front of his face. He was wearing a sailor suit that must’ve been all the rage among deckhands on cruise ships in the 1930s. The caption read: _Its my costume for my first season on the ice._ He used no punctuation, which was slightly annoying, but I did have text conversations with Misha, so I was used to it. The second photo was the same costume but from a different angle. I liked both of them. It looked nice on him. The next post was video. I pulled my backpack up from where I had stashed it on the floor, between my feet, and dug around until I found my headphones. I was dismayed to find that the left earbud had cracked open like an walnut. There was a tiny circuit board and a bunch of wires, plus something that looked like a circular filter. It was attached to something that looked like the little nubbin on the positive side of a battery. I groaned in annoyance, and used the right earbud to watch the video. A jazz song was playing while Yuri bobbed his head from up and down, while glaring somewhat intensely at the camera. The song was about was about five minutes long. He couldn't possibly be skating to all of it. At the end of the song, he abruptly turned the phone camera around to face Puma Tiger Scorpion. “ _Daddy cat,_ ” He said. That was it. I couldn't help but notice the first comment. It read _ya like jazz?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i fear i have memed too much
> 
> howdy guys gals and nonbinary pals, it is the first friday of my school year (i'm still in high school and i want to die) and i finally have time to write again! yay! please comment because i am a dead shrew, or talk to me on tumblr. i'm really lonely all the time even when i'm with my friends, so please talk to me.
> 
> (paraduxkys.tumblr.com)


	19. 2014.2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the best way to make something look long is to put a lot of texting. this chapter is only 4k words but it was 18 pages in the google doc
> 
> please leave a comment, they are the #1 best way to incorporate joy into my life (unless you're jamie. you know who you are). 
> 
> here's my tumblr: paraduxkys.tumblr.com 
> 
> leave a comment to get rick rolled (im not serious)

 

When we got to Pittsburgh, it was around noon. Leo had fielded a call from his aunt at seven thirty, to tell her that we made it to JJ’s fine and everything was going okay. We stopped at another rest stop for an hour, where we had lunch. I got a salad from a pizza place, while Jean-Jacques got a slice of pizza, a garlic breadstick, and a bowl of spaghetti. Leo went to the Starbucks that was also in the rest stop and got a ham sandwich and a San Pellegrino lemonade. I tried some of it too and it was carbonated as fuck. Although the more important thing was how the hell Jean-Jacques managed to eat that much food. 

“ _ How are you eating all that? _ ” I asked, after he came back from throwing away his pizza plate. He stuck the breadstick in his mouth, and mumbled around it. 

“ _ What? _ ” Leo asked, “ _ Can't hear you around the breadstick. _ ” Jean-Jacques bit the tip off and pulled it out of his mouth. 

“ _ I’m going to make a big poop when we get to New York, _ ” He said. 

“ _ Don't you make me buy an air freshener, _ ” I threatened jokingly. 

“ _ Please don't do that. I don't like the way air fresheners smell, _ ” Jean-Jacques said. 

“ _ Air fresheners all smell different, _ ” Leo pointed out. 

“ _ No, I mean, they’re all artificial and gross, _ ” Jean-Jacques said, and bit off some more of the breadstick. 

“ _ That’s kind of the point, _ ” Leo said. 

“ _ But they’re all icky and they make everything sticky, _ ” Jean-Jacques said. 

“ _ How does an air freshener make things sticky? All it does is sit around and smell like something nice, _ ” I commented. This salad was gross. 

“ _ I mean the spray-ee stuff. Like, Febreze. It sprays and then it gets everything sticky. _ ” 

“ _ Dude, I have used Febreeze and it has never made everything sticky. _ ” 

“ _ Febreze gives me flashbacks to when my mom would do her hair with this awful hair spray that would make me gag from the scent, _ ” Jean-Jacques said, a wistful look on his face. He was probably the first person to look innocent and wistful while looking at the ceiling and holding a breadstick up to his mouth like he was about to give it a blowjob. I wondered how much funnier the scene would be if it was actually a penis. Actually, it would probably just be more disturbing if that were the case. 

“ _ See, hairspray gets things sticky. Febreze does not, _ ” Leo said. 

“ _ Hairspray gets things sticky on purpose, but Febreze does it too. It’s just not supposed to, _ ” Jean-Jacques argued. Their argument continued even after we got back on the bus, and they decided that they would settle things when we got to New York. Although that didn't mean they couldn't still butt heads with their various arguments about how Febreze was or was not sticky. I brought out my cell phone to text Misha, but was quickly interrupted by Leo asking me what I thought. 

“ _ Hairspray is sticky, and my mom never had Febreze at home. She only ever lit a bunch of candles, _ ” I told him, and looked back down at my phone. 

 

I’m on a bus and i’m going to New York. no permission was given

Me 1:22

 

**yas rebel my child**

**Миша 1:23**

 

I ain’t yo child.

Me 1:23

 

**fight back against that govenment**

**Миша 1:23**

 

**have premarital sex**

**Миша 1:23**

 

**get tattooed the fuck up**

**Миша 1:23**

 

**break those rues**

**Миша 1:24**

 

Spell check is your friend.

Me 1:24

 

And I’d love to break my regrets but unfortunately you can't break the metaphysical.

Me 1:24

 

**shut up asshole**

**Миша 1:24**

 

My asshole is shut. 

Me 1:24

 

**thanks for making me think about your anus**

**Миша 1:25**

 

**it’s gross**

**Миша 1:25**

 

Ya nasty

Me 1:25

 

Privacy is my middle name, and my last name is control. No my first name ain’t baby, it’s Janet, Ms. Jackson if you’re nasty. 

Me 1:25

 

**wat**

**Миша 1:25**

 

It’s a song. Entitled Nasty. Written by Janet Jackson.

Me 1:26

 

**who is janet jackson**

**Миша 1:26**

 

The sister of Michael Jackson.

Me 1:26

 

[ [ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SDWHIMUfi1Q ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SDWHIMUfi1Q) ]

Me 1:27

 

I think that they’re both meh but my friend likes them so I have to accept listening to the Jacksons occasionally.

Me 1:27

 

**jackson is a weird name**

**Миша 1:27**

 

It’s American.

Me 1:27

 

You are not American. 

Me 1:27

 

Of course you think it’s weird. I do too. But yunno some of this music doesn't suck. 

Me 1:28. 

 

**i watched the video and it’s cool i guess**

**Миша 1:31**

 

**not my favorite 4/10 probably would not music again**

**Миша 1:31**

 

I’ve heard worse. 

Me 1:31

 

[ [ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQw4w9WgXcQ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQw4w9WgXcQ) ]

Me 1:31

 

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L_jWHffIx5E]

Me 1:31

 

**what are these songs even saying**

**Миша 1:42**

 

**i don't know the english very well**

**Миша 1:42**

 

  1. We're no strangers to love



You know the rules and so do I

A full commitment’s what I’m thinking of

You wouldn't get this from any other guy

I just wanna tell you how I’m feeling

Gotta make you understand

Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down

Never gonna run around and desert you

Never gonna make you cry, never gonna say goodbye

Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you

We’ve known each other for so long

Your heart’s been aching but you’re too shy to say it

Inside we both know what’s been going on

We know the game and we’re gonna play it

And if you ask me how I’m feeling

Don't tell me you’re too blind to see

Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down

Never gonna run around and desert you

Never gonna make you cry, never gonna say goodbye

Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you

Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down

Never gonna run around and desert you

Never gonna make you cry, never gonna say goodbye

Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you

We’ve known each other for so long

Your heart’s been aching but you’re too shy to say it

Inside we both know what’s been going on

We know the game and we’re gonna play it

I just want to tell you how I’m feeling

Gotta make you understand

Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down

Never gonna run around and desert you

Never gonna make you cry, never gonna say goodbye

Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you

Me 1:50

 

**me @ u**

**Миша 1:50**

 

My god misha 

Me 1:50

 

That’s so cute and sweet and I love you too but it’s such a meme in America.

Me 1:50

 

**what are friends for**

**Миша 1:50**

 

…

Me 1:50

 

What the actual fuck is wrong with you

Me 1:50

 

**what do you mean what’s wrong with me**

**Миша 1:51**

 

You just…I sent you the song lyrics, and you said ‘me @ u’, as one might when they’re flirting. I don't know what flirting is because i am a dumbass who doesnt know these things from anything other than books and movies and shit. But im fairly certain that that fits under the bubble of flirting. 

Me 1:52

 

**yea, id be lyind if i said i never tried flirting with you.**

**Миша 1:52**

 

**u still seem annoyed though whats wrong**

**Миша 1:52**

 

Do you like me romantically?

Me 1:53

 

**Yes**

**Миша 1:53**

 

But you also like Kyushee romantically.

Me 1:53

 

**Yes.**

**Миша 1:53**

 

How does your brain work that that’s just a thing that’s normal for you?

Me 1:53

 

**i’m poly**

**Миша 1:53**

 

wat 

Me 1:54

 

You are many? How does that work?

Me 1:54

 

**polyamorous**

**Миша 1:54**

 

**it means that i fall in love with multiple people at the saem time**

**Миша 1:54**

 

**and arguably have the coolest of the queer flags**

**Миша 1:54**

 

**[image]**

**Миша 1:55**

 

**i like you in the romantic sense but you’re not the only person i’m going to like at a time, and if we date i might have other partners**

**Миша 1:55**

 

**but you don't have to interact with them if you don't want to**

**Миша 1:55**

 

Okay. 

Me 1:55

 

If we ever do date each other, i’m cool with that. As long as you’re happy

Me 1:55

 

but like side question are you dating kyushee

Me 1:56

 

**i wish but sadly no**

**Миша 1:56**

 

I hope you get to have the lots of love

Me 1:56

 

**thanks bro**

**Миша 1:56**

 

Stop fucking calling me your bro. Did you forget what you just said about the lyrics?

Me 1:57

 

**you are my bro**

**Миша 1:57**

 

**my bromantic acquaintance**

**Миша 1:57**

 

**my bro from another mo**

**Миша 1:57**

 

**wait no that makes it sound incesty**

**Миша 1:57**

 

**i won't incest you beka**

**Миша 1:57**

 

**i promise**

**Миша 1:58**

 

How the hell would you incest me when we’re not related

Me 1:58

 

**my mom marries your mom and we are step brothers in law or something like that idk how family trees work**

**Миша 1:58**

 

That’s not incest. 

Me 1:58

 

**it’s totally incest**

**Миша 1:58**

 

**we are both members of the antonov-altin family it’s incest**

**Миша 1:58**

 

We’re not blood relatives. I did not push you out of my vagina, nor did you push me out of yours. I didn't fuck your mother and you didn't fuck mine. We were not both in the same uterus but at different times and we’re not each other’s uncles or aunts or grandparents. If we started dating and our moms got married would it be incest? No, because we weren't dating. We wouldn't even be brothers, that’s just a title. Step brothers means we use the title but aren't related and what even is this anymore

Me 2:00

 

  1. **it’s 2am here and i’ve been up since 6 don't talk to me about logic**



**Миша 2:01**

 

  1. **there’s just something about the way you like to ‘disprove’ these sorts of things that i can't tell if its cute or really obnoxious and i’m torn between wanting to hug you and tell you you’re being a jackass**



**Миша 2:01**

 

I wrote my response quickly, but then decided that it simply wouldn't do and rewrote it several times. Each time the main idea was conveyed but it was never right, and then there was the idea of even sending the message at all. I finally managed to press send. 

 

For what it’s worth i think you’re really cute too

Me 2:04

 

**me? Nah bitch**

**Миша 2:04**

 

**i work in a tattoo and piercing parlour and have sex with people i meet in clubs**

**Миша 2:04**

 

**i have sex with them and don't ever talk to them again beka**

**Миша 2:05**

 

**i have four piercings and two tattoos**

**Миша 2:05**

 

That’s ideological physical purity. I don't give a shit if you do or don't have premarital sex with strangers and look like someone who just broke out of prison, because you’re actually a nice person in my opinion and i wouldn't be talking to you if you werent. Live it the fuck up.

Me 2:05

 

The fight, if you could call it that, surrounding Febreze and hair spray ended with both Leo and Jean-Jacques deciding that they would prove the other wrong when we got to New York. 

 

Okay but my dumbass friends and they were just fighting. Jean-Jacques says that Febreze gets stuff sticky just like hair spray does and Leo says that only hair spray gets stuff sticky. I don't know shit about Febreze, but what are your two cents on the matter? 

Me 2:07

 

**das dumb**

**Миша 2:07**

 

**but leo’s right**

**Миша 2:07**

 

**also jean-jacques? the skater?**

**Миша 2:07**

 

The one and only

Me 2:08

 

“ _ Hey, Jimmy John, let me take a picture of you, _ ” I said. Jean-Jacques turned to face me and pouted slightly. He made his hands into the shapes of J’s by raising his index finger and holding his thumb out, with the rest of his fingers flat against his palm. He crossed his arms in what seemed like less than a second. 

“ _ Take my photo, paparazzi, _ ” He said. I couldn't help but laugh. 

“ _ Dumbass, _ ” I mumbled, taking the photo. I sent it off to Misha, with Jean-Jacques looking over my shoulder.

 

[image]

Me 2:09

 

Hot off the presses

Me 2:09

 

**ooh celebrity**

**Миша 2:09**

 

“ _ What are they saying? _ ” Jean-Jacques asked, now touching my shoulder with one hand. 

“ _ You’re a celebrity, _ ” I told him. 

“ _ What?! I’m a celebrity? Oh my gosh, let me talk to them! _ ” Jean-Jacques said happily, turning in his seat so that he was facing me. He had long since duct taped his camera to the back of the seat in front of him, so that it would catch everything. I wondered if it had run out of battery, and how long it had left if it hadn't. 

“ _ It’s my friend Misha, _ ” I said, and pulled my phone closer to my chest. 

“ _ Who is this Misha? _ ” 

“ _ You know who he is, _ ” I said, feeling a bit like the air was suddenly becoming less breathable. “ _ He’s my friend.” _

“ _ I don't keep tabs on your friends that aren't me, _ ” He pointed out. 

“ _ You’ve seen pictures of him. He’s the- the guy with the curly red hair. He’s got green eyes, and- _ ” I stopped talking before I could say the dumbest thing to ever be said. My brain, for some reason, had decided that it would be a good idea to remind Jean-Jacques of that one time two years ago when he made the offhanded comment that Misha was cute.

“ _ Oh! Can I talk to him then? _ ” Jean-Jacques asked. I shook my head. 

“ _ No. _ ” Jean-Jacques widened his eyes and put his hands together in front of his chest. 

“ _ Please? _ ” He asked, pouting slightly. 

“ _ Yunno, my mom always told me that if I pouted a crow would land on my bottom lip, _ ” Leo said softly. 

“ _ Your mom is weird, _ ” Jean-Jacques said. I looked back at my phone screen and made myself type out a single sentence.  

 

The celebrity wants to talk to you. 

Me 2:11

 

**hell yes i want to talk to him too**

**Миша 2:11**

 

Fuck you, Misha. 

 

Gimme a moment

Me 2:12

 

“ _ Jean, he wants to talk to you, _ ” I said slowly. Jean-Jacques snatched my phone away from me in excitement, but then realized he had no idea how to read Kazakh Cyrillic and asked me how to spell ‘Hi, Misha’. 

“Сәлем, Миша,” I said.

“ _ Yes, I would totally write that if all of the letters were here, _ ” Jean-Jacques said sarcastically. 

“ _ The one that looks like a C is first, _ ” I told him. He tapped the letter. “ _ Then the upside down e, _ ” I said, and he tapped once more. “ _ This next letter is weird, it’s kind of like an lowercase n, but backwards, and one of the legs is curved, _ ” I explained. Jean-Jacques bit his lip. 

“ _ This one? _ ” He asked, pointing to the и. I shook my head, and pointed to the л. 

“ _ That one. The other one is kind of an…eee sound. _ ” 

“ _ That doesn't look anything like a backwards n, _ ” He said, but pressed the key anyway. 

“ _ Regular e and then m, then a space, and an uppercase M, _ ” I told him. He pressed the correct letters. “ _ Now the eee one that looks like a backwards n, and then the w looking thing, and then an a, _ ” I explained, “ _ That’s it. _ ” Jean-Jacques looked especially proud when he hit send. 

 

**why you sayin hi we’ve been talking for like half an hour**

**Миша 2:14**

 

That was Jean Jacques

Me 2:14

 

He only knows English and some French and required my language badassery to greet you

Me 2:14

 

**you are not a language badass**

**Миша 2:15**

 

**you’re just a nerd who liked the dictionary more than the average child**

**Миша 2:15**

 

Shit i’ve been exposed

Me 2:15

 

Besides, all nerds are badasses. Just not the buff kind.

Me 2:15

 

I hang out with the cool kids

Me 2:15

 

We have wikipedia pages

Me 2:16

 

We’re technically famous

Me 2:16

 

**Well shit**

**Миша 2:16**

 

**can we video call? I miss you and wanna talk to your celbrity freinds**

**Миша 2:16**

 

The bus may have free wifi but it’s still spotty as hell, so i’d rather wait until there’s a strong connection

Me 2:16

 

**i wanna talk to your friends**

**Миша 2:16**

 

Shouldn't you be asleep

Me 2:16

 

**shut up**

**Миша 2:17**

 

**i went to a party tonight anyway**

**Миша 2:17**

 

**i left early so no i can still be awake**

**Миша 2:17**

 

Are you still drunk/high?

Me 2:18

 

**no**

**Миша 2:18**

 

**i wanna text your famous friends!**

**Миша 2:20**

 

“ _ Misha wants to talk to you, _ ” I told Jean-Jacques, as soon as I read the text. He made happy eyes. 

“ _ Okay, um, tell him that it’s really cool and super nice that he thinks I’m a celebrity. And that I hope he continues to support me in skating…Does he have pets? _ ” Jean asked. I nodded. 

“ _ His cat is named Treble, _ ” I told him. 

“ _ Tell him his cat is cute. _ ” 

 

It’s really cool and super nice of you to think that I’m a celebrity, and I hope you can keep supporting me in skating and stuff. Treble is cute too. -jj 

Me 2:22

 

**oh my gosh!**

**Миша 2:22**

 

**tell him that he’s one of my favorite skaters, aside from you of course. And then tell him that he looked really good in that picture.**

**Миша 2:23**

 

Thanks! Can I see a picture of your face too? -jj

Me 2:24

 

**[image]**

**Миша 2:25**

 

**sorry im ugly its 2 am here and i havent showered in like three days >///<**

**Миша 2:25**

 

Misha he thinks you look lovely

Me 2:26

 

**Holy fuck**

**Миша 2:26**

 

Also ya nasty take a shower

Me 2:26

 

**oh please as if you shower daily**

**Миша 2:26**

 

Yes i actually do try to keep my body from being disgusting 

Me 2:26

 

**bitch please i’ve known you for like seven years and you havent exactly smelled like freshly blooming flowers the entitre time**

**Миша 2:27**

 

Okay for one thing no ten or nine year olds shower as frequently as teenagers do

Me 2:28

 

Second a fair portion of that time was spent in a dance studio/ice rink, where we engaged in physical activity so ofc i smelled like sweat 

Me 2:29

 

**i mean like during sleepovers and shit**

**Миша 2:29**

 

**or when we would have casual hookups but without the sex**

**Миша 2:29**

 

… 

Me 2:30

 

You could just say when we hung out but where’s the fucking fun in that?!

Me 2:30

 

**you’re right, sayng things thatt arent weird is no fun at all**

**Миша 2:30**

 

**wait random question are you a virgin**

**Миша 2:31**

 

Yeah

Me 2:31

 

Is that bad? Do most fifteen year olds have sex?

Me 2:31

 

**i had first sex when i was 15 but i don't speak for everyone**

**Миша 2:31**

 

That's so young

Me 2:31

 

**really?**

**Миша 2:32**

 

I didn't need to, and you were the first person i liked, so no. 

Me 2:32

 

 

Am I an outlier to popular statistics? 

Me 2:32

 

**no it’s just i thought you might have had a partner in the elapsed time since you were twelve**

**Миша 2:32**

 

I’m still a 12 year old i’m just a lot stronger and taller

Me 2:33

 

**shut up you’re 15 and are considered an adult in some places**

**Миша 2:33**

 

**not 100% certain but i think you could get married in palestine if you wanted to**

**Миша 2:34**

 

What if I wanted to marry someone who wasn't a woman?

Me 2:34

 

WHAT THEN, MISHA?! WHAT THEN?!?!?!?!

Me 2:34

 

**also you’re still a shorty**

**Миша 2:34**

 

**gay marriage is legal everywhere if you get someone from the black market to marry you**

**Миша 2:35**

 

Yeah, because i can just casually buy a person to wed me and my fiance off the black market

Me 2:35

 

Everyone knows how people are always signing up to sell themselves

Me 2:35

 

**concubines tho**

**Миша 2:35**

 

**also i hate to be a party pooper but i’m really tired and i need to go to slep**

**Миша 2:36**

 

**goodnight love**

**Миша 236**

 

**♡**

**Миша 2:36**

 

I love you too, Misha.

Me 2:37

 

At that point in time, I resorted to talking to Leo and Jean-Jacques. The bus arrived in Philadelphia at eight pm and rolled out at nine, just after Leo answered a call from his aunt asking where he was. He told her that we had gone to JJ’s birthday party, and that we might just spend another night with him. The final leg of the trip began, and if the bus station in Chicago had been the moment of my life that was filled with the most anticipation, I was dead fucking wrong. Shortly after the bus left the rest stop, Misha came back online and wanted to talk to Leo this time. They exchanged music opinions, and Misha also thought that Leo had a nice face. This whole thinking other people were cute thing was really starting to bother me. Why did I not think that Misha was cute? I was seriously considering a different type of relationship whenever it was that I did happen to return home. I was pretty sure that it wasn't normal to be completely indifferent to the way your potential boyfriend looked. Everyone always talked about how people were hot or cute or whatever. I didn't even understand how the word hot could be connected to attractiveness. To me, Misha just looked human, with his various acne scars and freckles and a face that got super shiny sometimes. He probably smelled awful right now, and his skin was probably warm as the sidewalk in summer. He had been wearing all four of his earrings in the selfie he took and sent, and his undercut didn't stand out as much as it could have. He was slouched and shirtless, although you could only see his collarbones and up. How racy. I mean, if we were talking about physical ideals, he was a dancer, so he probably didn't have much pudge on his stomach. Then again, I had had a little bit of fat that stuck around until I started growing last year. I stood at 160 centimeters, and if you listened closely, you could hear my bones stretching. I’d be lying if I said I never woke up feeling like my shins were going to fall off. But hey, at least I was getting taller. I had outgrown Leo and was no longer the shortest amongst the three of us, but Jean-Jacques was still ten centimeters taller than me. And Leo was only three centimeters shorter than me, but I’d take any victory I could and tease him about being short. I wasn't doing a very good job. 

It was around eleven at night when the bus pulled into the station in New York City, and stepping off of the bus felt like stepping onto an ice rink in some far off land with a crowd cheering in the background. The game was afoot. 


	20. 2014.3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY!!!!! READ THE NOTES!!!!!!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: CHILD ABUSE
> 
> This chapter has a scene in it containing child abuse. If this isn't something you'd like to see, then maybe you should skip the chapter. If you want to still read the rest of the chapter, I will put the beginning and end of the scene in bold and mark it with bold asterisks.

“ _This motel is worse than sketchy, it’s a full blown portrait._ ” Leo’s analysis of the motel we were staying at was painfully accurate. It was the cheapest motel I could find. Rates were ten dollars per night per person, and we planned on staying eight nights with three people, meaning that we would be paying two hundred and forty dollars for the entire stay. That was less than some hotels charge for one person, let alone three. I was relieved to find that a motel so cheap existed. I had more than two hundred and forty dollars on my debit card, which was more than I could say before I understood money and budgeting a little more. I had been so afraid that I wouldn't be able to find anything cheap, and then my mom would know that I was spending all of my money at once and be mad because I was only allowed to spend a certain amount of money per month. An explanation of how I had spent so much money would be warranted, and I would get in trouble for going to New York. Even if I did have money that I had earned myself through sponsorships and prize money, it wasn't enough to sustain oneself. Not yet, anyway.

As luck would have it, JJ had said that he would pay for it all with his debit card, which, for some reason, he did not include in our pretend bank. But goddamn, did he have a lot of money. I guess that was what he got from being from a family comprised of the some of the best skaters in the world. However, the only respect in which he was the ‘king of cash’ was the one in which he had a lot of money. I was the one who had done all the math and figured out the financial situation we were in at the moment. Well, Leo did some of it, but I did everything that was really important. It didn't matter if we went to some random coffee shop, but it did matter that we had a place to spend the night and food to eat.

When we got to our room, it was tiny. There were two beds separated by less than a meter of space. There was a nightstand in between them and a window above the bed furthest from the door. There was a couch with a skin that could no longer hold all of its stuffing to the left of the door, and above that there was another window. On the wall across from the beds, there was a television and a door that I assumed lead to a bathroom. The biggest concern was that we would find ourselves faced with was that both of the beds had bed bugs. Although it had blatantly obvious that the motel was shit as soon as I found it online. Leo was holding an envelope with the key inside when we got to the room, so he took it upon himself to open the door. As soon as he wrapped his hand around the doorknob, he drew it back as if he had been burned.

“ _What’s wrong?_ ” JJ asked. Leo turned to face him and his camera, looking deeply disturbed.

“ _It’s sticky._ ”

“ _Oh no,_ ” JJ said. He sounded distressed and sarcastic at the same time. He pulled the sleeve of his hoodie down over his fist. He opened the door without having to touch it, and we entered to find that the room would’ve been all the rage back in the nineteen seventies. Since then, however, disarray had become the new fad and had slowly taken over. There was stuffing coming out of the couch, and it was dusty. Leo joked that the couch was a queer couch because the pattern on the outside was plaid. There were only two beds, which we checked for bedbugs. The beds were full of them, and there was a dark stain on the ceiling. I didn't want to know how it had gotten there or what it was. It could have just been mold, or it could have been a murder. I regretted my finance based choice to come to this hotel almost instantly. And to top it all off, the entire place smelled like wet dog and old wine. That could sort of be explained, by a bar a little ways up the street, but there was a no dogs sign in the lobby.

“ _Oh my gosh, that’s disgusting,_ ” JJ mumbled. I turned to look at him, as did Leo. He was looking down at the sleeve of his hoodie. It was originally a green hoodie but now there was a light splotch of brown from where he had used it to open the door.

“ _Seriously, Beka, you couldn't have picked a place that doesn't look like H. H. Holmes could be the receptionist?_ ” Leo asked.

“ _I made an error,_ ” I agreed, not knowing who H. H. Holmes was. “ _We should go to the store and buy big trash bags._ ”

“ _Um…Why?_ ” Leo asked.

“ _To sleep in. Like a…it’s called a_ sleeping bag, _and you go to sleep in it like a caterpillar,_ ” I said.

“ _Sleeping bag,_ ” JJ clarified, and yawned. I pointed at him without looking and nodded.

“ _Yes, we should use them as sleeping bags,_ ” I said.

“ _I don't wanna go,_ ” JJ said softly, “ _I haven’t slept in, like, two days._ ”

“ _Don't sleep in one of the beds,_ ” Leo said, “ _Unless you want it to look like you have a bunch of hickeys on your inner thighs when you wake up,_ ”

“ _Who would even want to see them in the first place?_ ” JJ asked.

“ _I’m sure your thighs would be very popular if you were a hooker. Though you should still try not to sleep until we get back,_ ” Leo suggested. JJ sighed, and nodded abjectly.

“ _I’ll just stand in the center of the room until you guys get back,_ ” He said, and shrugged his backpack off.

“ _Don't do anything stupid,_ ” Leo said. I nodded.

“ _Don't do anything more stupid than the trip,_ ” I said, and shrugged off my backpack. I put one hand in the big stomach pocket of my hoodie. My phone hadn't fallen out since the last time I checked, which was just after we got our room keys. They were actual keys, like the ones you have for your house or your car. Most of the hotels I had been in had keycards, but then again, I mostly went to nicer hotels than this, although they were only for competitions. This was my first real vacation and shitty motel aside, I intended to attempt to enjoy it. It was only as we were walking down the side of the highway that the motel was on did we realize what a fucking stupid idea this was.

“ _What if we get hit by a car, or mugged?_ ” I asked.

“ _Call 911,_ ” Leo said calmly. He was acting like he did this every night, skipping along next to the guardrail with his arms out to the sides. It was almost as if there weren't cars speeding past at ninety kilometers an hour a meter and a half away from him and a steep drop off into the woods on his other side.

“ _Can't call anyone if I’m dead_.”

“ _We probably won't need to. There’s plenty of room, Bek,_ ” He said. I rolled my eyes.

“ _We’re like a meter away from death._ ” I was tempted to stick my leg out to prove my point, but retention of limbs was always something to strive for. I could hear my heartbeat in my head, loud and fast, as if I had just run here from Chicago instead of riding the bus.

“ _Yup,_ ” He said, “ _Ooh, watch out, I just stepped in broken glass._ ” I looked down and was able to avoid stepping on the broken bottle. By the time we reached the nearest store, which was a gas station, it was past one and I was afraid that there would be visible sweat stains in my sweatshirt. When we walked into the BP, Leo ran straight for the bathroom, and left me on my own to search for bulk sized trash bags. I wasn't able to do it very easily. I had to ask the middle aged woman behind the counter for help. I didn't like the way she looked. She had a large, round face, and her skin was shining with sweat. She had wiry brown hair and green eyes that were already dead. She had a low voice when I asked her for help. She told me where to get the trash bags, and I paid for them two minutes later. I was frightened by the look in her eyes. It was terrible. I hadn't seen people whose eyes were already dead in a very long time, and the idea that someone could look like that in a place that was so close to New York City, a place that was supposedly the city of dreams, could look like that. The big cities were places where dreams were squashed and fulfilled every second of every day, and while hopelessness was scary, I couldn't help but wonder how someone could become so joyless. I wasn't one to talk, though. I had grabbed my dreams by the shoulders and dragged them in for a hug at a young age.

By the time we made it back to the hotel room, it was almost time to wake up. I wondered if there were busses to the city or if we would just have a few hours along a highway every day and night. I was fine with the walking, but it seemed that walking was going to be our primary mode of transportation. And that was less than opportune. New York wasn't the biggest city in America, but people sometimes treated it like it was. Everyone knew that New York was big. It was ‘the cultural capital of the world’. I understood how that could be, but I disagreed with the fact that there was a cultural capital of the world, and that it was in America. There was just too much stuff in the world to fit it all into one city, unless the city was fucking enormous and everybody there spoke ten languages. I’d like to speak ten languages, but at the moment I was stuck with three.

That was still probably more than a lot of people, though. Maybe I just didn't know. I knew a lot of people who were multilingual. My mom knew Kazakh, Russian, and Arabic, and so did Serik. My grandpa knew those three and also English. He probably knew more. I didn't know if it was a fact or anything, he just seemed like the type of man who knew a lot of languages. He had been all over the world and you could tell by looking at him. His eyes were black, and his hair was in a very militarial style. It had probably been around for most of his life and yet he refused to change it. He had great posture, and didn't fidget very often. He smoked and read the news and was quiet. He talked when people talked to him, and only sometimes because he wanted to.

When we got back to the motel room, Leo opened the door. This time, instead of touching the doorknob bare, Leo pulled the sleeve of his sweatshirt down over his hand and opened it that way. JJ was sitting in the middle of the floor in the room, back straight. He was looking at his cell phone, which he held right in front of his face. As soon as we entered the room, he threw the phone down.

“ _There was a prostitute here,_ ” He said emotionlessly. He looked like he had seen things.

“ _Didja have fun?_ ” Leo asked, and took off his hoodie. JJ looked confused for a moment, and then shook his head furiously.

“ _No! Of course not! I’m obviously a virgin!_ ” He said, as if he was stating that the sky was blue. “ _But my point is, I could hear people having sex. So I went to ask the people next door to be quiet, and the girl answered the door…Only, there she wasn't the only girl, there were two and also a guy. I could see around the door girl, ‘cause she was leaning against the doorframe, and the other girl and they guy were having really weird sex._ ”

“ _You pervert,_ ” Leo said. I put my hands in my pockets.

“ _No I’m not! It was weird! I felt like I shouldn't have been there!_ ”

“ _You shouldn't have,_ ” I said. JJ balled his fists and groaned slightly.

“ _Can I just tell the story?_ ” Leo and I both nodded. He seemed just a little brighter when he picked up talking. “ _So the guy and the other girl were having weird sex. The girl was wearing this weird outfit with lace and leather and she had, like, drag queen style makeup. She was tied to the bed, too-_ ”

“ _Bondage,_ ” Leo said quietly.  

“ _And then I asked the door girl if they could maybe be quiet and I came back here. Then, like, an hour ago, I was sitting on the couch and looking out the window and I saw the girls leaving, which I thought was weird. ‘Cause, like, when you have sex, you’re supposed to stay with them after, right? But they were leaving…Anyway, that happened and then I remembered something that I saw in a movie once where there was a hotel with rooms for a dollar an hour and my dad joked that it was a brothel, and that is how I learned what prostitutes are. But like, wasn't this hotel around that price or something? What if we meet a prostitute?_ ” He finished, and put his hands in his lap. He bit his bottom lip.

“ _Okay, calm down, bro. We don't even know if there are prostitutes, and if there are prostitutes here, they probably can't send them to people’s rooms without asking. That sounds kinda rapey. Besides, none of us will lose our virginity on this trip,_ ” Leo explained slowly. “ _Unless you meet someone and you really really fall in love._ ” He spoke in a more teasing way that time, as if he were talking to a toddler. JJ flushed red.

“ _That’s a relationship that has moved too fast._ ”

“ _I agree,_ ” I said. I was now imagining what it must’ve looked like, and I wished like hell that I wasn't.

“ _Okay. Now. Who has to share a bed?_ ” Leo asked. I got to sleep alone, and we all got in our garbage bags and laid down on the beds. I didn't get under the covers and neither did JJ, but Leo did. He was safe as long as he was in his garbage bag, he said. We talked to each other for a little while, before Leo fell asleep. I don't know when exactly I fell asleep, but it was before the sun started rising. And when I woke up, I was confronted with a pounding headache that made the idea of moving feel like moving a mountain. But still, I got up and yawned and wiped the little crusts away from my eyes. Leo informed us that we were just going to be exploring the city and visiting places like Central Park, Ellis Island, the Statue of Liberty, Times Square, and a few other assorted places, like a public beach and Broadway. I had no idea what any of these things were. But anyway, we weren't supposed to sneak into the theater showing Wicked until Saturday, so today’s explorations were going to be limited to Leo gawking and belting out random songs that he knew all the words to with JJ. They were both so talented outside of skating and I was extremely jealous. I thought I listened to music more than the average person, and I would be lying to say that I had never tried singing. I just sounded like an exacerbated chicken. I sort of wished that I had lived alone at some point in my life, so that I could feel as comfortable while singing as JJ and Leo did. Then again, Leo had been struggling to both train all year round and manage singing lessons at the same time before he had come to Chicago, and JJ had been taking piano lessons since he was five. He said that singing just sort of came naturally to him. I was jealous as fucking hell of that. Nothing came naturally to me. I could remember things well, and that was it. I was subpar with everything and for him to come along and sings good enough to win a JJ and says ‘it’s just a thing that happens’ was certainly something that helped to destroy my self confidence. And because we were living in a world where it was natural for people to burst out into song in the middle of Times Square, I was asked to sing. I mumbled along with the two of them as they sang a beautiful rendition of Rehab, feeling out of place as ever, if not more.

“ _C-Can we sing something else?_ ” I asked, finally, after Leo and JJ finished singing some song from Rent. I hadn't really been listening but I made a mental note to check if there were actually five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes in a year.

“ _Yeah, what do you want to sing?_ ”

“ _I don't know, something a little more,_ ” I waved my hands around in front of my chest for a moment, as if I were a sorcerer creating the perfect song. “ _Rhythmic._ ” Leo puffed out both of his lips and nodded, and then grinned.

“ _Ninety six thousand!_ ” He shouted. I was taken aback slightly. “ _It’s a song from In The Heights, which I think you’d like, ‘cause it’s more rap and hip hop, with no boring old people songs._ ”

“ _I don't know the words,_ ” I pointed out.

“ _Me neither,_ ” JJ said. I looked down at the bagel in my hands. It was at the exact opposite end of the bread spectrum from white bread, and filled with blueberries. It was cut in half through the middle, which was drowning in strawberry flavored cream cheese. I hadn't known that it was possible to cram that much cream cheese into a single bagel until I had started eating mine, and I had been equal parts intimidated and impressed by the copious amounts of cream cheese that I was expected to consume off of this one bagel.

“ _M’kay,_ ” Leo mumbled, and pulled out his cell phone. He fiddled with it for a moment before handing it to me. On the screen were a bunch of words, presumably the words to Ninety Six Thousand. “ _So, this is like, one of the biggest songs. There’s three main guys who rap, and they’re Usnavi, Benny, and Sonny. Then there’s the salon squad, which is made up of Daniela, Carla, Vanessa, and Nina, and another guy who has a few solo lines called Graffiti Pete,_ ” Leo explained. “ _Who do y’all want to be?_ ”

“ _U-Um, which part is easiest?_ ” I asked.

“ _Of the male roles, Sonny and Graffiti Pete, and of the female rolls, Carla,_ ” He said.

“ _I think I’ve heard this musical before. It’s the one with Lin Manuel Miranda, right?_ ” JJ asked. Leo nodded.

“ _Yup, that’s who wrote it. He was also Usnavi in the original cast,_ ” Leo explained, “ _Do you mind if I take the Usnavi part and the Nina part?_ ” I shook my head, at the same time JJ said _nah._ I wound up taking the parts of Sonny, Graffiti Pete, and Carla, while Leo took on Usnavi, Nina, and Daniela, leaving JJ to sing Benny and Vanessa. Leo already knew all the words to this song, so he could stand in the middle of Times Square and sing his parts so loudly that every pigeon within a kilometer radius would be shocked. I quickly became even more impressed with JJ and Leo as they sang real fucking high, and felt worse about myself. My portrayal of Carla couldn't have been good, even if I had just learned of her existence, and I was fairly certain that the way we had done the harmonies at the end was not in the way that harmonies of any kind were meant to be sung. When we finished singing, I thrust Leo’s phone back into his hands. I wanted to curl up inside my shirt like a turtle. I used to do that when I was cold, but stopped a while ago and now simply bore my goosebump-ridden arms for the public eye. My wishes to become a turtle were also aided by the fact that Leo and JJ had both started staring at me. I was only a little bit afraid of the looks on their faces.

“ _I- W-Was I that bad?_ ” I asked, staring down at my bagel. It must’ve had such an easy life until it was cut up and filled with cream cheese.

“ _Dude. How is it that I was never told you can rap?_ ” Leo asked, _“I mean, I’m sure you’re better with songs that you know already, and ones that are in Kazakh, but damn! I’m impressed!_ ”

“ _Yeah, man, you should actually consider rapping as a profession when you get to old to skate,_ ” JJ commented. I wanted to become a turtle, and not the metaphorical tee shirt turtle. I wanted to become an actual turtle so that people wouldn't be looking at me. It sucked that there were probably plenty strangers who had noticed the three teenage boys singing loudly in the middle of a heavily crowded location in one of the biggest cities in the world.

“ _I’m not good at music,_ ” I said softly, and took a bite of my bagel.

“ _Not good at music, my butt,_ ” JJ said, and put a hand on my shoulder. “ _If you actually knew all the words, you would’ve sounded great._ ” I shook my head and pulled the bagel out of my mouth.

“ _W doesn't exist in Kazakh or Russian, so I sound weird.”_

“ _So? Your voice has rhythm._ ”

 _“Rhythm isn't pitch, and pitch is what people care about,_ ” I said, and stuffed the bagel back into my mouth. I marched over to a row of potted plants and sat down between two of the pots. It wasn't a good call on my part, as the ground was wet and it hadn't rained last night. Eventually, we stopped hanging out in Times Square and went to continue exploring. JJ wanted to go browsing in pawn shops, which we did. We kept bouncing around from shop to shop, buying random things and doodads. I saw a pair of socks in the first pawn shop we entered that reminded me of Ravil. They held a plaid pattern with two little cream colored bubbles on the sides. The first one, located just above the ankle, read _I don't care_ and the second, located on the outside of the foot, read _I’m high_. It shouldn't have reminded me of him but it did all the same. He was like that. I was reminded of the day he turned sixteen, and went around clubbing with his friends. Aliya and I had had to go out at three in the morning to find him. It was one of the times that I had been the most afraid in my entire life, aside from one time when I was around five or six years old, and it sort of mirrored the situation of Ravil’s sixteenth birthday.

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**It was in the earlier hours of the morning when my father started screaming. The lights came on and they were the brightest things to ever be. Aliya woke up and** started crying almost instantly, her little five-or-four year old brain not knowing what to make of the situation. I was woken up by their combined screaming, and slowly began to panic when I noticed that Ravil wasn't asleep next to me, in the bed we shared at the time. I got out of my bed and took a few steps until I was at Aliya’s bed. She had slept in a crib until she was seven, the time at which she no longer fit comfortably. I kneeled beside the crib and tried to calm her down. She didn't like that she could see the bright lights and hear the loud sounds. I closed the door, which helped with the lights, but we could still hear everything. Papa was yelling at Serik and Ravil. They were idiots, burdens, really-should-be-smarter-than-this-at-your-age worthless kids. From what I heard, Serik snuck out after ten to go have fun with his friends, and Ravil had gone out after him and they wound up in the same bar as our dad. I sat with Aliya in the dark while Papa yelled. I hated listening to him yell. It was even worse in the darkness. I remember imagining him as a hybrid of a man and a buffalo, like how I imagined the beast in The Scarlet Flower. He was still a human though. He still had hazel eyes and brown hair. His beard was black, somehow, and in certain lighting, he looked like he had blond hair. I wondered why I didn't look like he did sometimes, and why I looked so much like my mother. Ravil was like the perfect mixture of the two of them. Physically, at least. His eyes were greenish brown and he had light brown hair. His skin was lighter than mine, but he was strong and smart. I didn't like the idea of being smart until I was around eight. After Papa finished yelling at Serik and Ravil, he opened up our bedroom door and shoved them in one at a time, Ravil first and then Serik.

“What are you doing still awake, Otabek?” He asked when he saw me.

“I-I, um, I wasn't, A-Aliya was-”

“All you do is take my money and ruin my name with those stupid ballet classes. Do you think you’re going to be a dancer or something?” He shouted. I shook my head furiously, afraid to get up and go back to my bed.

“N-No, sir, I-I’m sorry,” I said, talking to the crib.

“How many times do I need to tell you that you are never going to be a dancer! If that was what you were meant for, why, we would all be fucking ballerinas,” He shouted.

“I’m sorry,” I said, but it didn't feel like it was me saying it.

“If you were truly sorry you wouldn't have done it in the first place!” He shrieked, pointing a finger at me.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered again. It was all I could think of, all I could feel. I messed up, I messed up, I messed up. There was no escaping the fact and it was all my fault, everything wrong with the world was because I messed up.

“You’re not! You’re not sorry!” He mumbled, and while he was stepping forwards, Serik stood up and shouted,

“Y-you’re a d-drunk asshole!” His voice was trembling and he didn't sound like he even believed himself. He sounded like he didn't even know why he was talking. His eyes went wide as he was speaking, and covered his mouth with his hands. Oh God, he mumbled to himself, oh my God. I turned my head to face Ravil, who was sitting on our shared bed and pressing himself up against the wall. He was holding his knees to his chest and staring at Papa with wide eyes.

“What?” Dad asked, “What the fuck did you just say?” Serik didn't say anything. His face was nearly white. I wanted everything to be a dream, to wake up and have my normally confident brother back. It scared me to have this boy around. He wasn't brave and sounded like he had just gone through hell and popped out the other side.

“You called me a drunk asshole. Boy, you don't even know what a drunk asshole is actually like. You- You’re the asshole here. You with your, your school and your motorcycle. Do you never fucking think about how much worse you make all of our lives?”

“I-I’m sorry, sir,” Serik said softly. He clutched his left forearm with white knuckles. Everything was silent, and that was almost worse than if there was noise. I gripped Aliya’s tiny hand tighter.

“It hurts,” she said softly. I reached through the metal bars of the crib to place one of my fingers over her lips, and turned my face towards the bars like a bird hiding beneath its wing.

“You had better be,” He hissed, and left the room. He slammed the door behind him. It was like the silence was a precariously balanced object made of glass, and it shattered when Serik practically flew from his spot next to his bed leaned backwards against the door. He slowly sank down with his knees to his chest and ran his hands through his hair.

“Ravil…Are you okay?” He asked with a shaking voice. I looked over my shoulder at Ravil. He was sitting on the edge of our bed. His face was shining in the dim orange light that came in through the open window.

“I’m so s-sorry, Serik,” He said softly, “I-If…” He made a small noise that made him sound like he was choking. Serik opened his arms wide, and gestured for Ravil to come over to him. He got up and walked slowly over to Serik. Serik hugged him tightly, and kissed his forehead. He put one of his knees to the floor, and let Ravil sit on his thigh.

“Now tell me, habibi, where does it hurt?” He asked in a whisper. Ravil sniffled softly, and pointed to his upper arm. Serik touched the spot with one finger, and Ravil flinched away.

“It’s okay, habibi, it’s all gonna be okay. I promise. One day, the big mean man isn't gonna be able to hurt you,” Serik said. He had taken to combing Ravil’s hair with his fingers, his hand shaking while he did so.

“Really?” Ravil asked. His hazel eyes looked bright.

“Yeah, honey, one day, you’re gonna be done with high school, which means you can go to college, and nobody’s smelly old parents are allowed at college.” Ravil smiled,

“You mean it?”

“Would I lie to you?” Ravil shook his head.

“No. You’re nice.” Serik was amazing in the way he managed to calm Ravil down. He had all of us asleep in less than an hour. He told us to get on the bed with him, and so we did. I went back for Aliya, though, and I held her little body close to mine. She didn't really understand what was happening beyond Ravil’s sadness. The night was fine, although I was still afraid the next morning when I was able to see Serik in better lighting. He had an ugly splotch that was darker than the rest of his skin in the middle of his forearm, and another one that was sort of blueish on his cheek. He got those sometimes, but would never say why. The only explanation that I got from him that night was that he and Ravil had run into Papa at the bar they had wound up in, where he was already drunk. When Serik had been home, things were a lot better than they were before he went to college. He was like some sort of strange guardian who knew everything about the way people worked, and he was a better dad than our real one. I thought that, anyway. It was like we were in a POW camp and he was the only soldier who **remained hopeful. And then when he left home, we lost our guardian angel. Of course, now Papa was also gone, and so was I. Maybe it was for the best that people left our family. It had been broken from the start.**

***********************************************************************************************************************

Now, Serik was off putting his master’s degree to good use as he had finally started working. Well, not really working. He was an unpaid intern at a law firm in Taraz at the moment. That was where Myrto was getting her PhD in teaching. The last time I spoke to Ravil, he mentioned that Serik had said they might be getting married soon, which gave me a strange sense of hope. I was in a weird limbo where I wanted to go home and at the same time I wanted to roam free, like the horses on Leo’s calendar. The ‘stangs, he called them.

“ _Ey, Beka. Are you still with us?_ ” Leo asked, flicking my shoulder. I can tell you for a fact that I leapt out of my skin and the sudden adrenaline rush only stopped a few minutes later when I managed to make my fingertips stop twitching. I was still with them. We continued to look around various thrift stores for a few hours, before going to hang out in Central Park for a while. It was quite sunny, and we had an odd little competition of who could spot the most dogs. Leo won. He managed to see ten dogs, while JJ saw six and I saw four. Then again, I was hardly competing. I was more laying on the ground and trying to find a position where my back didn't hurt. I didn't do a very good job. It was around five pm when Leo’s phone started to ring. He pulled it out of his pocket and his face paled drastically.

“ _It’s my uncle Damien,_ ” He said softly. He stood up from his spot in the grass, and walked a few meters away. He stood with his phone to his ear before he started talking in English. It was about three minutes before he abruptly started shouting in Spanish, attracting the attention of some strangers.

“ _I really hope you guys don't have to go back to Chicago,_ ” JJ said softly to me. I nodded.

“ _That would not be good,_ ” I said. We sat in silence until he hung up and walked back over. Surprisingly, this was what filled me with dread. I guess knowing that something is going to happen isn't nearly as bad as the thing actually happening. Of course, for some people, the anticipation could be worse than the actual thing, but for me, if I was told that I would be shot tomorrow, worrying would do nothing. I think that the worst thing about it would be seeing the bullet coming towards me and not being able to move. Leo sat down and shoved his phone back into his pocket, looking happier than I had thought he would.  

“ _My uncle says that we can stay here, but not for nine days. We have to go on Friday,_ ” He said.

“ _I don't have to do that. He’s not my legal guardian, why does he care?_ ” I asked.

“ _Well, you’ve been living with us for two years and we might miss you if you ran away,_ ” Leo snapped. God, why did people have to be so nice to their friends? I loved having friends, don't get me wrong, but it felt so weird to be told about how close I was to someone. It was like my heart was twisting. Like when Misha told me he loved me or that we were best friends. It was like being stabbed, but in a good way, if that makes sense. And it was the same when Leo told me he was going to miss me. Of course I was going to miss him too. But how often did people tell other people they loved each other? I could only say that one person loved me with complete certainty, and that person was Misha Antonov. Maybe Leo had more people who loved him, or at least knew more people loved him. I had two Instagram accounts, one of which was private, and one of which was to drum up business and to get people to notice Otabek The Skater. The Skater had a band of around three hundred people who liked his account and regularly commented and liked his posts, while Otabek The Person had about ten people who regularly commented and liked his posts. The Skater had people who thought he had a pretty face and nice hair, and was athletic and talented and awesome.

The Person had people who thought random pictures of street signs and dogs and selfies were cool, among other things like videos of my immediate surroundings with whatever song was on the radio in the background, and pictures of Leo and JJ, other people at the rink we went to, and the most popular post I had ever made. It was a picture of JJ doing the JJ-Style pose he had invented last year at the Grand Prix Finals next to a Jimmy John’s. It was only as ‘popular’ as it was because we had turned the comments section into a year-long discussion, and then there were around thirty other comments from people. Misha told me I was a genius, while Leo was judging the shit out of JJ and I but also taking part in the shenanigans. Some of the other people we knew from school commented to say I was smart and things like that. Maybe that was why people said those things. I could say that I was actually happy when I was with my friends. And sure, I’d love to tell them I loved them more. But I couldn't, and I didn't know why. It was difficult to emote like that for me.

“ _I’m sorry, Leo,_ ” I said, “ _I’d miss you too._ ” I tried to smile. Outward displays of affection were weird. He grinned back.

“ _Yay,_ ” He said softly, and accompanied his word with jazz hands.

“ _Yeah,_ ” I said, not knowing what else to say, and head butted one of his hands. “ _Besides, this just means we get to sneak into Wicked earlier._ ” Leo grinned broadly.

“ _Y’all are so awesome, let me say. Like, who else would second act with me? It’s illegal, so Guang Hong wouldn't do it. He fears being arrested._ ”

“ _So do I,_ ” JJ pointed out, “ _But then again, don't a lot of people fear being arrested?_ ” I shook my head.

“ _I don't, not really. Second acting probably isn't that big of an offence,_ ” I said, “ _Besides, I know people who have done worse._ ”

“ _Really?! Who did what?_ ” JJ asked.

“ _My brothers do a lot of illegal shit, although Ravil more than Serik._ ” They already knew my siblings’ names. “ _And my friend Misha also likes to live on the wild side. The most I’ve ever done is steal things from stores, ride on the back of a motorcycle my brother Ravil stole from Serik, and then I had to go into bunch of clubs once when I was eleven._ ”

“ _Wait, how old were you when you stole the motorcycle?_ ” Leo asked. I shrugged.

“ _I think I was nine or ten? Ravil would have been thirteen, fourteen, maybe fifteen? I don't know,”_ I said softly.

“ _Jesus,_ ” Leo said, “ _When I was ten I was blasting musical soundtracks in my bedroom alone for hours after school and you were going on joyrides._ ” I stared harder at the grass.

“ _And that’s not bringing up an eleven year old going into clubs,_ ” JJ said, “ _How was it?_ ”

“ _Very stressful! It was loud and smelled awful, and sneaking in was way too easy!_ ” I told them. Why did they even want to know these things? I’m sure they’ve both done some stuff that’s not exactly child friendly in their eyes. I was also filled with embarrassment at being the topic of conversation. It felt like I was drawing attention to myself by talking about my life prior to coming to America. I felt as if I was selfish and narcissistic by having my friends talk about me. Then again, I was also talking about me, and that was what was worse. Everyone talks about people when they aren't there, but I was here, having a conversation about myself. I was pretty boring anyway. I skated, did homework, and looked at memes. It wasn't like my life’s story was all that great either. I had theorized that I didn't have great mental health, but then again, if bouncing back and forth between complete and utter apathy and too many emotions at the same time was a thing that happened, which it did, it couldn't have been too rare.

“ _Cool!_ ” Leo said.

“ _Not really,_ ” I said, “ _Imagine going to a place you hate even though you don't have to be there very often._ ” The two of them stared at me as if unable to comprehend how a club could possibly be a not so nice place. I groaned and laid back on the ground again. It was a vacation-y time and vacations were supposed to be fun. Blegh.

“ _Sorry,_ ” JJ said softly. He whipped his head to the right and shouted, “ _Dog!_ ” I looked where he was looking and sure enough there was a large, fluffy dog that would be a nightmare to brush. I pitied the owner, who was a short, plump woman with a slightly wrinkly face despite looking relatively young.

“ _What does that put you at? Five?_ ” Leo teased, “ _It’s like you guys don't even have dog radars._ ”

“ _I don't have a dog radar,_ ” JJ said.

“ _Well, you should get one. Dog radars are essential._ ”

“ _To what? Being a dog walker?_ ”

“ _Okay, if you are already a dog walker and your radar needs to be deployed, you’ve probably lost a dog,_ ” Leo said. They continued to talk about dogs for a little while, and then other random things. I feel sort of bad for not listening, but I found the way the branches of the tree above us so pretty, and I was able to doze off into a coma-like state of not thinking about anything. It was wonderful to not worry or come up with situations that just fizzled out, but it was also dangerous. I would probably do anything someone asked me to do right now. New York City was supposed to be loud, overcrowded, and full of very rude people. But now, there was a lot of white noise and I wasn't exactly uncomfortably close to anybody, so I was fine. Just fine. I loved the feeling of being just fine. Or at least, this version of being just fine. Sometimes just fine was the type where you just wanted to curl up in bed and cry all day. I hated that feeling more than anything. Nothing worked at all on those days. I didn't understand how Lzzy Hale could miss the misery in the way that she did. Maybe she hadn't spent much time being miserable.

“ _Are you hungry? I’m hungry,_ ” Leo said, and turned to rest his hand on my stomach. I jerked in surprise, and all of my limbs flew up in the air. I made a sound that was akin to the sound a cat makes as it is sprayed with water. The surprised one, not the hiss of absolute hatred.

“ _Don't fucking touch my stomach!_ ” I shouted, and sat straight up. Leo put up his hands in surrender.

“ _Sorry,_ ” He said. I felt like a dick.

“ _I’m sorry, that was rude,_ ” I said.

“ _It’s cool._ ”

“ _I’m hungry,_ ” JJ said. Leo’s eyes lit up.

“ _Right! I- I planned that we would either go to The Smith or the Ace Bar,_ ” Leo said, “ _Cast your votes._ ”

“ _The Smith,_ ” JJ and I said at the same time. We went. It was okay. I ate a hamburger for the first time. I wasn't too fond of hamburgers, I decided. I felt guilty for eating it around halfway through, but I finished it anyway. After dinner, JJ paid with his magical debit card, and we left. We wandered around stores some more and finally got to pet a dog, and wound up in an arcade where there  was also a bar around ten. I wondered if maybe we were becoming nocturnal. I wasn't an expert, but waking up at three in the afternoon wasn't healthy, nor was proceeding to have a few granola bars and a bag of Skittles for breakfast. Eating the first real meal of the day at around eight pm definitely wasn't healthy. It also left me wondering why food costed what it did. I had no idea what the conversion rate between a dollar and a tenge was, but I knew that tenges were tiny and dollars were big, which meant a seventeen dollar hamburger was probably expensive.

By the time we went back to the motel, I was burdened by a small teddy bear that reminded me of a teddy bear that I had had as a wee baby, and then Aliya was given the bear as a wee baby and I hardly ever saw it again. It had our surname written in Sharpie on one of the feet and Aliya had taken a pair of her tights that she no longer liked and made them into a cape for the teddy bear. I have no idea where the bear had gotten off to in recent years, but it was probably somewhere in our house. It’s name was Qoñir Ayui, because I was a creative child. The only issues I had with this new bear were that it was new and not on the brink of falling apart, and that it had no eyebrows. The latter was my primary concern, really. Busses did go to the motel we were staying in, so we rode one back, and when we got there, I used a pen to draw on eyebrows. They looked too angry, but I didn't really care. I took a picture of myself with the angry bear, also making an angry face. I sent the picture to Aliya’s Skype account, before thinking for a moment and posting it on Instagram without a caption.  

I slid my phone back into my pocket and turned my attention to the movie that was playing on the television. I had never seen it before, but then again, I had never seen a lot of movies before. I had mostly seen television shows, because they were on, and listened to the musicals that Leo liked to blast.

“ _What is this movie?_ ” I asked. JJ turned to look at me.

“ _It’s called The Big Lebowski, and it’s about this guy who goes around and does a bunch of stuff after some other guy pees on his rug,_ ” He explained. He certainly knew how to advertise films. I stared at the screen, wondering if the woman saying _I’ll suck your cock for a thousand dollars_ was a prostitute or not. The man she was talking to looked newly homeless homeless, and this made me wonder if we were actually watching porn. We were not; as no cock sucking occurred. At least, I don't think so. I wasn't really that into the movie. It was sort of boring. I played Tetris on my phone while the movie played, and I only looked up when they said something was about to happen. From what I gathered, it was just a big pointless scheme starring a man who was high all the time, although maybe if I got any of the jokes, it would have been funnier. And, you know, if I had been paying attention. About halfway through the film, I became bored of playing Tetris and went on Instagram to look at the accounts of the people I followed. Leo and JJ obviously hadn't posted anything, but Yuri Plisetsky had posted a picture of his feet. His socks were purple and zebra striped, and his toes were pointed. Quite impressively, might I add. I remembered him as having a high releve from the ballet summer camp, but now I only wondered how he was en pointe. He probably didn't have much cause to wear pointe shoes, though, seeing as he was a figure skater. I wondered if and when we would see each other during this season. I had found myself getting used to the idea of him through what he shared with the public and with what others shared of him. The Internet really liked him, because he was incredibly talented and an interesting sort of person on top of that. The Internet was also known for making things overly dramatic and taking them out of hand, so one had to be careful and not look at things other people said to get a grasp of what something truly was. Yuri seemed to be a very pissed off person, which for some reason his fans found sweet and cute. The root of one’s anger is never adorable. He was definitely a lot deeper of a person than a lot of people made him out to be, and was pissed off by the boy people thought he was. Then again, ‘people’ were the odd three hundred Instagram followers and four hundred Twitter followers, the majority of which were also on Tumblr. It wasn't a lie that there were some fans I feared, although that went without saying. There were other fans that were super cool, and really talented artists. Those were the ones I liked to observe.

After the movie ended, we decided to talk for a while and then JJ made the strange comment of “ _We should play spin the bottle, only I don't want to kiss either of you.”_

“ _Then why did you suggest it, moron?_ ” Leo asked.

“ _Normal people do it,_ ” JJ said.

“ _I think we’re pretty normal,_ ” I said, “ _This is teen rebellion._ ” Maybe the rebellion was cancelled out by the fact that I was staring down at the screen of my cellphone. Misha had sent me seventeen texts via Google Hangouts, ten via Skype, and twelve via Instagram. I wondered if he had sent any to my phone on Messenger. I wouldn't know until I was somewhere in Kazakhstan with cell phone reception, though. I found that there was some irony in being given a cell phone so that I could keep in contact with my family while in other countries, only to find that the cell phone didn't work in those countries, and I found joy in that irony. Maybe it was me that was strange and not cell phone service. I went to Google Hangouts first, and didn't read any of the texts as I scrolled up to see what was going on with Misha.

 

**hey whats up i come bearing news**

**Миша 9:12**

 

**seriously its important i need youuuuuuuuu**

**Миша 9:39**

 

**beka lives will be changed**

**Миша 9:39**

 

**beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka beka**

**Миша 9:41**

 

**i have two v important things to tell you**

**Миша 9:41**

 

**otabek pls answere your phone**

**Миша 10:27**

 

**there’s this couple who graduated from my school last year and i really wanted to date thme, they were cute togeter. the guy was named something dumb and i don't really remember but the girl was named jolbaristiñ and shes starting off her career as a singer**

**Миша 10:28**

 

**i was sort of friends with them, yuno, like a friend of a friend situation. you know how i work part time at the radio station, right?well she asked me to play one of her songs so i did and its become really populatr**

**Миша 10:29**

 

**flash forward to today (this was like in april btw) and shes made a deal for an album like only badasses and the incredibly lucky do**

**Миша 10:29**

 

**i ran into her at the library the other day and we wound up talking to each other, in a kind of stiff formal way and she brought up that she was interested in making music videos and that she really couldn't beleve it was all hapeneng and blah bala blah**

**Миша 10:23**

 

**i told her that i had a boyfriend who was a professional dancer (thats you, sorry if you didn't like being called my bf.) ajd she was pretty impressed, becauze generally people like to date people around their own age and i am but a youth and pro dancing is digficult**

**Миша 10:31**

 

**and this was a little while ago too, like back in june and now im hearing the song on the radio sometome.s she emailed me yesterday and asked about my boyfriend who was s  pro dancer**

**Миша 10:32**

 

**and thats the story of do you wanna be a background dancer in a music video cuz you can if you wantto**

**Миша 10:32**

 

**and now beka is when you must actually ANSWER YOUR FUCKING PHONE**

**Миша 11:13**

 

**i’ve had a romance devolpment**

**Миша 11:13**

 

**kyushee asked me out and i said yes and now we’re dating and i am so fucking happy right now**

**Миша 11:18**

 

**and it would be better if you coulf RESPOND TO MY MESSAGES**

**Миша 11:18**

 

**okay fine be like and ‘sleep’**

**Миша 1:02**

 

After reading the string of messages, I wasn't even sure what to feel. I was excited and confused and sad and wondering if going home to be in a music video would be good for my career, and what was even happening right now. I found myself hanging onto what Misha had said at the end, though, that he was dating Kyushee. In that moment, I hated him. I didn't want him to be with her, and why did he have to love the way he did? I loved and supported him but I somehow just wanted him all to myself, and didn't want to share. I wondered if I had perverted the idea of love in my mind, where monogamy was the bottom line. And I hated myself for not liking the idea of something that made Misha happy. He was one, if not the most, important person to me and his happiness should have been the priority of our relationship. I was sure that Kyushee was a great person, and that he wouldn't be dating her or even in love with her if she didn't make him happy. Still, I wanted to be somebody’s one and only. I liked the idea of having someone who would love and treasure me, and I would love and treasure them right back. A person with whom the planets aligned and everything was perfect. Such a romance could never possibly exist and any real one would be a disappointment to my ridiculous expectations, but my God did I want that. Or, at the very least, I wanted it at that moment in time. It was dumb of me to think that I could be ‘the one’ for anyone, but I wanted it so very much with Misha. I made myself read his other messages, which were mostly just telling me to answer my phone and giving less detailed versions of the events. I texted that I didn't want to be in the music video and that I was happy that he was dating Kyushee now. I put my phone in the stomach pocket of my hoodie and leaned back against the headboard of the bed I was sitting on. I couldn't stand having my phone in my pocket, though. It felt so much heavier than it actually was. I took it out of my pocket and told him that I was happy that he was happy.

 

**fucken finally**

**Миша 1:45**

 

**wait no you should be asleep**

**Миша 1:45**

 

**pick a lullaby**

**Миша 1:46**

 

I’m not a child.

Me 1:46

 

**everyone should get to be sung to, don't you think**

**Миша 1:46**

 

I do what I want bitch.

Me 1:47

 

**love you too babe**

**Миша 1:47**

 

Please never unironically call me babe again.

Me 1:48

 

I looked away from my phone after what felt like five minutes with no response. It was probably barely a minute. But he had read the message and wasn't responding, and maybe he didn't feel like he had just run so fast his shoes couldn't keep up with his feet, but I did and I felt like a fool. Saying that I was totally and completely fine with being called babe was wrong, and with the knowledge that Misha had a girlfriend, I only felt worse. And I felt guilty for feeling that way, because it was unfair to judge him for loving differently than I did. I couldn't judge him for how he felt. That would be the worst possible thing I could do. I just wished that he didn't have a girlfriend and that it would be only us two when I went back home. Only, that wasn't a kind or just way to feel, which meant that I was no more than an asshole. I loved him. That much was true. I loved Misha Antonov! Yes, I will go about and shout it in your face until you understand if you don't already! Unfortunately, feeling romantic feelings for him made me feel bad and like I was doing something wrong, like I was intruding on his happiness or trying to steal some of it. I felt like shit and I didn't want to talk anymore, but Leo and Jean-Jacques had decided that they we would all be playing Never Have I Ever. I would rather run around and repeatedly scream ‘fuck’ at the top of my lungs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyo
> 
> so that was angsty. i'm sorry if anybody disliked the scene with beka's dad in it (although lets be real i dont see why anybody would like him). and since i fear people yelling at me that it's not legit because the internet is full of mean people, i drew upon my own childhood experiences to write that scene. aside from that, i hope yall enjoyed the chapter. 
> 
> oh yeah and i'm sorry it's been forever. i'm starting out at a new school this year and my friend who edits this has really busy lately, so we haven't had much time to do anything. i do have some more chapters written though, so hopefully the next update will be before the end of the month. however, i'm also applying to an art school this year and the audition date is in early november, so that's nothing to count on. 
> 
> until next time my amigos
> 
> tumblr: paraduxkys.tumblr.com


	21. 2014.4

I woke up fully clothed and laying on top of the covers. It was too dark to see anything, and for whatever reason, I felt perfectly awake. I didn't recall going to sleep, but if it was still dark after I had woken up, it surely couldn't have been enough sleep. I swung my legs off of the bed and stood up, stretching my arms up as far as they could go. I twisted to the side and reveled in the sounds of my back cracking. I stood up and moved over to the couch. I pushed the curtain aside just slightly. The trees across the road from the motel were a silhouette against the sky. There was a pale pink band that ran along the tops of the trees and faded into blue the further up the sky arched. I sat there for quite some time, with the realization that I would remember this moment for the rest of my life sinking in as the colors of the sunrise started to bleed past the horizon.

It was too bright to continue staring at the sunrise, so I looked away from the window when the sun had cleared the tree line. I closed the curtain and walked back to my bed. Leo and JJ were still asleep, although it puzzled me as to how. Leo had fallen out of their bed and into the small space between his and mine, and had half dragged the blanket with him. His trash bag was long abandoned and he was laying on his stomach with one arm stretched towards the nightstand. JJ was lying diagonally across the bed, with just his arms, shoulders, and head poking out of the sleeping bag. His feet were at the edge, where Leo seemingly dragged the covers off. I blinked, and stepped on my trash bag as I went back to my bed. I lay on my side, facing away from the window, and turned my phone on. I had no new notifications. I was reminded of the dream I had last night, and turned the phone off so fast. I pressed the off button so hard that it was a wonder it even popped back up again after I took my thumb away. 

In my dream, nobody could remember me. Not any of the people in America, nor anybody at home. My mother only had two sons, and Ravil and I no longer shared the title of ‘middle child’. My dad was still at home and he was nice to everyone else. Myrto didn't exist and Serik still lived at home. Grandma and Grandpa were less uptight and cared more about everyone’s happiness. If I didn't exist, everyone in my life would be in a fairy tale. It hurt like hell but maybe the concept was accurate. 

I was terribly afraid of becoming dependent on others. I had done almost everything alone, and made almost every major decision alone. I freed my mother of the responsibility of needing to care when I was twelve years old. I was independent and I could handle whatever big ‘it’ was coming my way. And ever since I was a child, I had functioned pretty well alone. Looking back, maybe it was strange that I took care of Aliya so much when she was a baby. I could function fine alone, and that was how I had always thought. It was incredibly moronic to think that I could succeed without other people. I had dreamt about the other side of this situation, where wanting to be alone made people actually do it. What an asshole I was. Why did any of them love me in the first place? That was how I had treated my family, and sometimes my friends. I opened the Google Hangouts app and sent a text to my mom, telling her that I loved her. She didn't respond. I didn't expect her to, not really. My logical brain told me that she was probably asleep because it was the middle of the night in Almaty. I still felt pathetic for needing the reassurance that I was loved back by the people I loved. It was selfish to ask someone if they loved you. Selfishness was classified as a negative trait and I didn't want any of those. 

But caring about myself and the way others thought about me was selfish, and my God, I was a terrible person. I probably came across as such an asshole. It was so scary to think about how many people hated me. Ravil’s friend from when he was younger, whatever his name was- Nuroski, that was it- probably did. Ravil probably also did, now that I thought about it. I didn't think I personally hated anyone. I did severely dislike certain people, though. Like, as previously mentioned, Ravil and Nuroski. Fucking dicks. 

My hands shook as I opened up my Google Hangouts conversation with Misha. I hated that I needed him to tell me he loved me, and it was even worse that when he did it wasn't enough. I needed actual physical contact, but I couldn't just go over there and hug Leo or JJ. It wasn't fair, they were still asleep and while I was awake, I was still exhausted in every sense of body and mind. I denied it throughout the conversation but I was crying like a little bitch. I probably looked like a fucking mess. But Misha didn't need to know that. He didn't even really need to know that I was there. All I needed from him was a hug. In fact, whenever I went back to Almaty, that would be one of the first things on my agenda. I didn't know how much longer I wanted to stay away, but if things continued to go the way they had been going since I was in Russia, it would be whenever I wanted to or found a training program that was better than the one I was currently in. Or maybe it would be when I got too depressed to stay away from what was familiar. It would be so easy to turn over to the other side of the bed and ask for hugs. I just couldn't do it.

I hid my face in my arms. My eyes felt so hot and I felt so guilty for crying over nothing but being lonely. I was always lonely, always depressed, so why was it coming to bite me in the ass now of all times? Now was when I was supposed to be having fun. I forced myself to smile, but what actually happened was that I made an awful sound. It was helpless and afraid and I didn't want to believe that it had come from me. I didn't want to seem weak, because then people would  _ know _ that I was weak. It wasn't really a problem, because nobody could be strong all the time, but what if people thought differently of me? I tried to present myself in a certain way, and that guy certainly wasn't weak. He was wise and all-knowing and sarcastic about it. Maybe that shouldn't have been how I portrayed myself when I was only fifteen. God, how arrogant could a person get?

I wanted to make a physical list of every flaw I had, but by some miracle, I remembered how my family and Misha had written those letters to me when I first went off to Russia. I moved slowly towards the suitcase that housed the letters and got them out of the suitcase pocket that they had been kept in. I hadn't touched them in the past three years, because I thought that it might erase the meaning of what was written and instead of being left emotionally decimated I would have just seen some words. And I would take the option to feel things intensely over looking at words any day. I cried some more while reading Misha’s letter. All it did was make me want to be with him more. He was the only one who understood me. I wondered how my life would have been if I didn't have Misha. I wouldn't be in America, for starters. I would have never found the joy that came from speeding about on ice skates, and my brain would have been so incredibly fucked up. I would be a lonely wannabe dancer who needed to bathe in anti-depressants to get through a single day. I probably would never have realized that ballet wasn't what my body was made for, and I would have never tried to take on more modern styles of dancing. I would be a lot like Ravil, probably, while at the same time being his opposite. I would read so many stories and fantasies and be the butt of so many jokes, and maybe I would be forced to learn how to actually fight. But that was the life Ravil had lead so far, and I refused to become him. 

I wondered if I would even be alive at this point if I didn't have Misha. On my worst days, he was usually the one to pick me back up again and I  _ needed _ him to be here, with me, right now. Was it selfish to want another person that badly? Or was it bad that it was  _ him _ in particular? 

Leo woke up about an hour later and was surprised to see me crying. He asked if I was okay and if I wanted to talk. I shook my head. He sat next to me on the bed and eventually I stopped crying. I laid down on my back and Leo held my hand. He never looked at my face, and didn't until after JJ woke up and wondered why we were sitting on the bed together, because wasn't Leo supposed to be sharing a bed with him and not the other way around? I couldn't exactly pinpoint why, but I started crying again. I felt like a weakling and a bitch, like I shouldn't have been crying with the two of them looking at me. It was bad to cry with other people around. Nobody wants to hear you cry, Otabek, so stop it right now or else. ‘Or else’ didn't really exist, but that was because the threat of anticipation was far worse than any actual threat. I sort of liked what ‘or else’ became at home. I often had to cook dinner or repair torn clothing, and while I was doing those chores, I’d think to myself that I was a little old grandma who was waiting for her grandkids to come home so that she could give them the cookies she made last night just for them. But now I was being a burden by crying. That was what it really meant to cry around other people. 

Even though it was the last thing I expected and certainly the last thing I deserved, JJ told me to sit up. I did, and he sat down next to me. He put his arms around me and didn't let go until the three of us had managed to start talking about music. I still felt guilty for crying, even while expressing my love for the genres of rock and electronic music. Separately, of course. Leo started playing some of the songs on our playlist after that, and I did slowly manage to feel better. I liked the simpler songs because it was easier to figure out what was going on in them and what the instruments were. In a song with only two or three instruments, it’s a lot easier to zero in on what the piano is doing, or the drums, than in a song where there’s fifty things happening and you can't even tell what that brassy sound is. I liked to zero in on certain aspects of music. Last year, I had picked a song with words for my free skate, and I found that in my head I had the bad habit of raising the pitch of the singer’s voice drastically. And then I had hit peek lazy a few weeks later when I realized that I did almost no work for the exhibition and just used Leo’s laptop to make a mashup of my two other songs, which were Taqa Time and Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This. It was a fucking mess, but some people on the Internet thought it was okay. They didn't know that I hadn't spent nearly enough time making it so that the songs flowed together and that I had just added in a bunch of shit to make it seem like I knew what I was doing. 

Leo decided while we listened to music that he wanted to watch cartoons instead. He didn't like any of the shows that were on, though. We did manage to catch the end of an episode of South Park, which was apparently a show he had liked as a child. 

“ _ I’ve been to South Park, you know, _ ” He said absentmindedly. 

“ _ It’s a cartoon, _ ” JJ said, playing with the strings on his shorts. 

“ _ It’s also a place in Colorado. My sister Rose went to live there after her high school graduation, and she says that see everyone every day. _ ” He whipped his cell phone out of his pocket as an advertisement for can openers started playing. 

“ _ Jesus Christ, the population is only six hundred seventy. _ ” JJ and I both had similar reactions. The population of Chicago was almost three million, and the population of Almaty was one and a half million. Saint Petersburg had around six million and New York City had eight million, and there were most definitely more than six hundred seventy people at my high school. I had lived my entire life in big cities, except for visiting family members that lived out in villages out in the middle of nowhere. Mama would have liked to invite everyone to our house, but our house was small and not meant to fit the total sum of our extended family. I wondered if I had more extended family members than there were people in South Park, Colorado. I would hate to be trapped in a place like that. How did people who lived in towns like that even function? According to the Internet, there were around twelve hundred people at my school, and I would say that I knew around a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty of them. How did people who lived in small towns even function? There would be no way to hide. I much prefered living in cities. 

We left the motel room around eleven. By now, the doorknob was clean. We got a bus into the city for breakfast. I had a really good piece of toast that was fairly cheap. JJ had three pancakes and Leo had an avocado sandwich. I loved avocados, but JJ thought they were disgusting and tasteless. I had to disagree with him on every dish except for one. Leo’s Uncle Damien liked to experiment in the kitchen, and there had been a time that he made an avocado soup that was basically guacamole but much thinner, cold as snowmelt, and intensely slimy. While I struggled to swallow any of it, I told him that it was delicious and that I would love to have it again. Over the course of the next few hours, we hung out in arcades and in a few Starbuckses, and JJ bought a pair of sunglasses and a bottle of non-alcoholic champagne off a street vendor. I didn't trust it at all, but the liquid didn't smell like alcohol. I still didn't trust it, but drank it anyway. We took little sips in between conversation next to an overcrowded dog park. JJ tucked the bottle inside his leather jacket every time someone came over to us, and we would always point to a different dog when people asked whose ours was. JJ even told someone that the two of us were brothers, but I don't think the man believed him. JJ was tall and muscular and while I was a shrimp. I said in my best American accent that yes we were in fact brothers. I sounded Russian. 

That night, we wandered over to this outdoor music festival after eating kebabs and cannoli for dinner. It was in central park, and there was a French band playing a sort of weird alternative pop music genre that JJ hated because the song playing was supposedly vaguely incesty. I sort of liked the way it sounded even though I couldn't understand any of it. That was how I got into a lot of American music. Loud and angsty sounding music was very appealing to me. And wouldn't you know it, music and other teenagers are much better at teaching second languages than actual teachers. You take all these lessons and learn all these words and sentence structures, but actually being around people who spoke English and going to an English speaking school was what really taught me another language. And the useful shit, like how to curse and talk about science. No second language course will ever teach you how to talk in a way that’s less than polite. I sort of think that they should, because as a person who grew up around cursing and passive aggressive insults, a lot of cuss words were just naturally a part of my vocabulary. 

After going to a street fair where we didn't actually buy anything, just stared at things we wanted, we went back to the motel around midnight. By some stroke of magic, the bus that took us back was almost entirely empty, save for a guy who looked like he was homeless sitting in the front of the bus and a woman who looked like a coal miner that was standing by the second door. The three of us sat on the back bench. I sat with my feet on the seat between me and JJ, because I really didn't feel like socializing at the time. I went on Instagram instead, and found that my feed was full of a bunch of new posts from Yuri Plisetsky, a picture of Misha in a dress, and a bunch of miscellaneous posts from various queer positivity accounts. I first paid attention to Misha and Yuri, who had the posts that were more interesting to me. Misha was standing in his front yard, wearing a jacket that our old ballet studio had sold over top of what might have been a dress. His skirt was black and came down to his knees, and underneath he was wearing ripped jeans and a pair of neon pink high tops. The sun was setting and it lit up his smile beautifully, bleaching everything golden. The caption was quite lengthy: 

 

**eyitsyafrendmisha** big news: yesterday i came out to my parents and they were super cool about it! if you have no idea whats going on right now, im agender and i didn't know what clothes to wear to shw that so i got a skirt from my gf (@bumblekyushee) cause me wearing regular cloths not that eye catching. for a while now i’ve wanted to go by they/them pronouns but was too afraid to say anything about it. but fuck it, i’m starting my last year of highschool soon and im guna be accurte gendered while doing t. bi bi bi, my beautiful peopel, hope you’re having a nice day/night.

 

It was followed by several hashtags concerning the LGBT community. I commented that they had spelled friend wrong in their new username. They responded a few minutes later with ‘stfu beka’. I wondered how well they would get along with JJ and Leo, and suddenly I was missing them intensely. Why did missing people have to hurt so much? I really wanted Misha to be here. They would get along so well with JJ and Leo, which was just another added bonus to having them in the same city as me for once. They made me feel so much better when we were around each other, and when we talked to each other. God, I loved them so much. 

And maybe it was strange to say, seeing as there were the odd ten thousand kilometers between us. It was strange to think that you could be so far from somebody you loved so much, especially knowing that the furthest away you could be from someone else was around twenty thousand kilometers. I wondered how many people had never left their region, or state, province whatever. I knew people who had never left Almaty, or Chicago. Ravil had never left home, at least not to my knowledge. How was it that he could have never left home and be at an age where he would be graduating college? Thinking about that only reminded me that this year I was going to be a junior. That was old. Well, not really, because I skipped seventh grade, but this was the third year of high school. I would be done by now if I were still at home. 

I went back to scrolling through my Instagram feed, where I was met again with Yuri’s posts. The first post of his was a set of three photos. The first of those was of a girl with red hair and blue eyes. She was sitting on a beanbag, typing on a laptop, and grinning broadly up at the camera. She had impressively winged eyeliner, and was wearing a black and white flannel and black pants. She was tagged as milla.babicheva. She looked familiar, and her name definitely sounded familiar. I was fairly certain she was another of those Russian skaters who had more talent and skill in the smallest belch than normal people did in their entire bodies. I made a mental note to Google the name later. The next picture was a selfie of her and Yuri, in which he was glaring at the camera with the most dissatisfied face I had seen to this day. He looked both like he wanted to commit the genocide of all those who thought they could look at his face and like taking a selfie was such a fucking waste of time that he really shouldn’t have had to bother with. It helped that he too was wearing impressively winged eyeliner. In the next photograph, he was crossing his two middle fingers in the shape of an X and glaring at the camera while Mila was pinching her lips together and staring out of the screen with half closed eyes. The final picture was one of Mila holding her hair up to reveal a secret area where her hair was shaved almost down to the skin. I double tapped the photoset and then read the caption. 

 

**yuri_plisetsky** this bitch thinks her makeup and hair is cool

 

His next post was a picture of his cat, and then there was a video of Viktor Nikiforov talking extravagantly and making a ton of hand gestures whilst he spoke. He spun around, and then bowed at the end. The frame was shaky and there was no caption, and I had no idea what was being said because the audio on my phone was off. The next post was another photoset comprised of six pictures, the first of which was of Yuri in a ballet studio. He was pointing one toe of an incredibly flexible foot and giving the wooden floor a judgemental stare whilst he pointed his cell phone at the mirror. I swiped to the left. The next picture was still in the studio, with Yuri doing a vertical split and holding onto the barre with one hand. His other hand was in his hair, holding up a fistful of his hair so that it looked sort of like he had a bun, only his hair was too short. The third of the pictures of him was a selfie of him doing that same vertical split, only now his hair was falling down around his face. He was giving the camera a blank stare that could have never been confused with joy. 

As it happened, the third picture was actually a thirty second video of Yuri doing fouetté turns without shoes on. Well fuck. I was quite the envious guy, and now I felt more like I wanted to be able to do something that I didn't deserve to be able to do more than ever. 

The fourth of Yuri’s photos was one of him pulling his left foot up as he arched his back and tilted his head back so that his toes could rest on his hairline, and the fifth was basically the same picture but with his right foot on his head. And the final portion of the photoset was a video of Yuri sitting on the floor, with his legs out on either side in a perfect split. He was leaning forwards in the first frame, but as the video silently progressed, he leaned forwards and pressed his chest to the floor. He reached out in front of himself and pulled his body forwards. His legs snapped together behind him as he laid on his stomach. He rolled over and bend his knees so that his heels were right next to his butt and placed his palms on the floor on either side of his head with his elbows in the air. He pushed up into a backbend and rolled forwards until he was standing and facing away from the camera, at which point the video came to a close. I envied him as much as I thought that he was a fascinating human being. Was it strange that I had put together an idea of Yuri in my head? It came from the bits and pieces of himself that he showed the world online and in his interviews, and of the few times that I had met him in real life. He didn't like people that much, and he was angry at the world but not in a blind way. Nobody was angry in a blind way. Ravil was angry because he had a stressful childhood, and now he was angry because he had no money and no job and a child to look after and a whole big slew of other things to take care of. Aliya was angry at the world because nobody took her seriously, because she was just a kid, or just a girl. She was smart, and very good at sports that required power and focus if I do say so myself. 

People were never angry about nothing. People never felt any emotion without some sort of stimulation. It was too much effort to feel an emotion that wasn't there, and there were always signs that things weren't how they appeared. And Yuri definitely wasn't angry about nothing. He was a hard worker, for one thing, and cared a lot about what other people thought. Although that assumption could have been entirely false. It was based off of the time two years ago, when I ran into him in the bathroom while looking for JJ. I wasn't exactly sure what the specifics were on what he was doing in there, but it hadn't been to relieve himself. I was pretty sure he had been throwing up, which scared me. He was too young to compete at the time, which meant he wasn't nervous or anything. He was either sick or thought he wasn't thin enough. And based on his angry and somewhat explosive reaction, it was the latter. I wished I was brave enough to tell him that he was beautiful. But not beautiful like a fairy or some other ethereal forest dwelling sprite. Beautiful in a powerful way, like Princess Leia. 

As the bus pulled up to our stop, I tried to quit thinking about the various Russians I knew. After all, there was a busy few hours ahead of me. They were filled with talking to friends, watching television, eating the giant fucking box of licorice that JJ bought today, and sleeping. My prediction of our nightly schedule was almost entirely accurate. Around two, JJ decided that he was going to the vending machine to get some water, and when he came back, he told us that he had seen another one of the prostitutes.

“ _ Are they really there or are the whores mythical creatures that only you can see? _ ” Leo asked. He was trying to look out the window without moving the curtains away enough so that he could be seen. He was having a very difficult time figuring it out. I smiled at my socks.  

“ _ Next time I’ll get her number, _ ” JJ sneered. 

“ _ If there is a next time, _ ” I said softly. Soon after Leo gave up trying to see through a curtain and joined JJ and I on the bed. JJ was sitting cross legged with the jumbo sized licorice box in between his legs. He had a piece in his mouth, chewing it on one side like it was a stick of tobacco. 

“ _ If there can be a next time, there will be a next time, _ ” Leo said. 

“ _ Murphy’s Laws are the personification of my anxiety, _ ” JJ said. His tone made him sound like such a smartass, even though the words he spoke were far from the nature of jackassery. 

“ _ I thought there was only the one, _ ” I said. JJ shook his head dramatically. 

“ _ There’s, like, fifty or something. _ ” Leo’s eyes widened. 

“ _ Jesus Christ, _ ” He said softly. I nodded in agreement. We continued to talk for a while, eventually turning the TV on and keeping up broken bits of conversation. We talked about the people who we knew in Chicago, mostly. The three of us had dance classes with a lot of the people at ChiArts who were dance majors. There seemed to be a hell of a lot of drama there. Although I guess that was to be expected, since when people talked about it the first things they thought of were visual arts and theater. I’d be lying if I were to say that the idea of being an actor had never crossed my mind, although that was mostly in a brief stint of existentialism. It had been after I tore one of the muscles in my calf. I don't remember the name of it, but I had been forbade from exercise for three months. I had thought that I would never be able to skate again, and was panicking because I had used up all this money and wasn't even going to be able to make a dent in paying it all back, and then I wouldn't be able to make my own living and everything would be shitty. I would have to go back to Almaty and start thinking about what I was going to do with my wasted existence. I could be a doctor, but you had to go to med school for that and med school was incredibly expensive and took forever to get a degree in. I could be a lawyer, but it had taken Serik eight years to get an  _ internship _ in law and more money than I knew. And of course, the only logical thing to come up with was becoming a film actor. They had really fun jobs and made a fuck ton of money. I could move to LA, get an audition…And tank it. I had no idea how to be an actor. 

And therein rose another wave of wanting to die due to how much of a waste of space and time and money I was. I hobbled around someone else’s apartment with a pair of crutches and had to use the elevator instead of the stairs. I could feel myself getting weaker in those three months of inactivity. The past two years had been absolute shit for me. I hadn't made any money in the past year, although I was considering getting a job at the McDonalds that was near Leo’s apartment. There had been now hiring signs up for months and I felt incredibly guilty for spending so much time cooped up in the apartment after school. It was only after I tore that muscle that I realized how damn much we trained. I knew that school got out at three and we didn't get home until eight, but it felt so weird to come home before the sun started setting. Hell, Leo’s Uncle Damien didn't even get back home from work until around six, and Opal didn't come home until eight thirty. And then, of course, Carmen and Jimmy got home around the same time I did. They just went to a different school. And Sanchia had gone off to attend college in Pittsburgh, so we didn't see her except for over winter break and during the summers. I was pretty sure she wanted to be a social worker, but I wasn't sure. She was turning twenty in four days, actually. 

About a month into my three month sentence, I started going to the library after school to read. I started off reading mostly fiction, but wound up learning a lot about history and science, although I found myself more drawn to the history books. People treat the dead men who founded countries as so noble and stoic, but while I had been reading the biographies of some dead scientists and politicians, it was blatantly obvious that at least half of them were sassy as hell. It made me think that I should care more about current events that were going on in the world. I mean, I knew the basic facts about a few countries, but nowhere near enough. To compensate, I downloaded a news application on my cell phone, although I still did like to read the newspapers. Then again, who could dislike newspapers? They were more reliable than most things you could find online, and they made you feel more dignified. Holding a piece of paper and reading off of it also made me feel like I was important. I’m not sure why, though. 

After the movie we were watching ended and something else started playing on the television, Leo suggested that we play Truth or Dare whilst wiggling his eyebrows, as if they had something to do with such a trivial party game. JJ couldn't make up his mind about playing the game. He seemed like he wanted to but also like he thought it was an even worse idea than sneaking away to New York. The temperature had been in the low thirties all week, and we were drowning in sweat. 

Sweat gathers in a certain way, at least on my body, where it seems to defy all logic behind gravity and gathers in my upper body. My hair gets completely soaked and my face could be a disco ball. My neck is so shiny and my arms get slippery with how sweaty they are. See, I don't sweat that much, but when I do, it’s like releasing the floodgates to let an ocean through the front door. Nobody wants to touch me when I’ve been exercising for quite some time, and while it may seem like Misha wouldn't care about that sort of thing, they actually refused to not only touch my skin, but they wouldn't touch my clothes either because ‘what if they were damp’. They found it absurd that I could sweat through so many types of clothing, but what I found strange was that when they were sweaty, it wasn't gross and they didn't smell super awful. They would just get a little shinier and smell more like a mess than they had before. Messes didn't really have significant smells, though. More like onions, I suppose? The onion smell was kind of gross but not like the way I smelled. I smelled like a dumpster outside a school on a forty degree day, and my sweat had a weird texture when it dried. It was just a tad rougher than how my skin was normally, but I digress. Sweat wasn't that interesting, but Truth or Dare was. At least a little bit. JJ refused to answer dare because he didn't want to leave the bed that he and I were sitting on and Leo didn't really want to answer truth. Their questions for me were sort of boring, anyway. The truths were all would you rather questions and the dares weren't big enough things to be remotely interesting. So, of course, my logic was to dare Leo to go ask the main desk if there were actually prostitutes here. His eyes became huge and round and he sat up straighter for a split second before grinning. 

“ _ Yes, _ ” He said, and was at the door in seconds. 

“ _ Wait, I’m going too, _ ” JJ said, “ _ Need proof. _ ” 

“ _ Me too, _ ” I said, and got up to follow the two of them. I had one of the keys in my pocket, and ran my thumb over the ridges while we walked in a nervous silence to the main office of the motel. When we got there, Leo approached the front desk and asked, somewhat awkwardly, if they offered prostitutes. 

“ _ Aren't you a bit young to be asking about whores? _ ” The man behind the desk asked. 

“ _ N-No, I’m twenty, _ ” Leo said a bit nervously. I didn't buy it. Then again, I had the knowledge that there were sixteen days left until he turned seventeen, so I guess I couldn't judge. I just thought that he should have said some younger age, like eighteen or nineteen. Besides, it would have been worse if JJ and I had stood next to him. I was very obviously under eighteen, with our childish faces and how people didn't believe it when I told them I was fifteen. My cheeks were squishy and my jaw was soft, and I was currently dressed like one of those middle schoolers who thought he was hot shit but was actually just a fuckboy, and it was worse because I was aware of the fact. Middle school fuckboys always grew up to be college fuckboys, and then everybody stopped caring. I couldn't really say that much about the nature of fuckboys, though, because I didn't hang out with them and none of them cared about me because I didn't have boobs. They all sort of struck me as a bunch of cunts, though, so I wouldn't try to get involved with one of them. 

“ _ Prove it, _ ” The man behind the counter said. Leo didn't react at all. He only had his driver’s permit on him, and that would say that he was born in 1997. 

“ _ I’m not looking to hire someone tonight, mister, I just wanna know if you have whores here. _ ” The guy behind the counter looked over Leo’s shoulder at JJ and I. We were slouched against the wall, shoulder to shoulder and I can't tell you what JJ was doing, but I found myself engaged in a staring contest with the man behind the counter and felt alight with shame. And worse, I felt like I wasn't allowed to look away. Fortunately, the man looked away first after just a few seconds. My ears felt hot. 

_ “Then why are you even here? _ ” He asked with the tone of an angry cartoon character. Leo shrugged, and snatched a pamphlet from the counter. He rushed over to JJ and I. As soon as he approached I saw the face of man behind the counter twist angrily. I pulled gently on Leo’s hoodie and moved towards the door out of the lobby, and just after we started to move as a conglomerated group, the man shouted ‘ _ Hey!’ _ It was scary enough to inspire us into sprinting back to our room and slamming the door shut behind us. The pamphlet had become crinkled in Leo’s hand while we had been running, but it wasn't torn or anything and was still readable. We read it with eager eyes, wanting to know what exactly the deal was with the motel. I was sort of distracted by the image of a girl with blue eyes and an unnaturally large chest. She seemed to stare out of the page at me, like she was asking me why I was looking at her. I was, of course, looking because she was looking at me with eyes that were too blue to be human. 

To recap, the dare was successful and the motel offered prostitutes to their guests. That was interesting, I supposed. But anyway, it was Leo’s turn to ask one of us. 

“ _ JJ, _ ” He said, as if he were contemplating the name, “ _ Truth or Dare? _ ” 

“ _ Truth, _ ” JJ sighed softly, as if he were in that phase when you get so tired your brain can barely function and you’ve just stopped caring. 

“ _ When did you have your first kiss? _ ” Leo asked. 

“ _ Um, actually, I’ve never kissed anyone before. _ ” Leo’s eyes went wide open, and even I had to admit that I was a little surprised.

“ _ Are you serious? _ ” Leo asked, like it was something that mattered. 

“ _ Yes!” _ JJ responded, just as intensely, “ _ My girlfriend lives in another country, and I came here when I was twelve. _ ” It made sense when spoken, but I had just figured that by the time the average person was seventeen, they would have kissed someone. 

“ _ Wait, I specifically recall you talking about hot people in eighth grade study halls, _ ” Leo said, eyebrows coming together on his forehead. JJ made a  _ pshhh _ sort of sound and nodded. 

“ _ Well duh. I think people who look nice look nice. Ain’t no getting around that, _ ” JJ said. 

“ _ Huh, _ ” Leo murmured, “ _ Mine was with Olivia Rhee. _ ” JJ’s eyes almost bulged out of his skull. 

“ _ Are you serious? _ ” Leo nodded, laughing. 

“ _ Why are you so surprised, man? She was my girlfriend for like a year. _ ”

“ _ Oh my gosh! I mean, everyone shipped you, but I had no idea it was legit! _ ” JJ gushed. Leo nodded, smirking. He clicked his tongue and made the shapes of guns with his hands simultaneously. 

“ _ What about you, Bek? _ ” JJ asked. 

“ _ What do you mean, what about me? _ ” I asked. 

“ _ When did you have your first kiss? _ ” He asked, moving his wrist in a circular motion while he spoke. 

“ _I, um, I was twelve,_ ” I lied, “ _It was my friend Misha._ ” Well, it wasn't entirely false. They kissed me on the forehead when I was twelve years old and it felt so much more profound than it could have possibly been. 

“ _ Damn, you’re a player, _ ” Leo said, tapping me on the shoulder. 

“ _ What do you mean? _ ” I asked. 

“ _ Bro, I would have been too scared to kiss anyone at twelve. _ ” 

“ _ They kissed me, _ ” I pointed out. 

“ _ But I thought you were friends, _ ” JJ said. I nodded, crossing my arms over my stomach. 

“ _ Yeah, we are friends. _ ” 

“ _ With benefits, _ ” Leo said softly, grinning like a fool. I wanted to die as I swatted him on the shoulder. 

“ _ Shut the fuck up, _ ” I growled. Or, I tried to. It came out too high. 

“ _ Are you still friends? _ ” JJ asked. I nodded. He smiled, “ _ Good. _ ” Then he paused before asking if Misha was a good kisser. 

“ _I don't know!_ _It was…warm?_ ” I said, questioningly. I didn't even really want to hear about Leo’s kiss with Olivia, I just wanted to not be trying to impress them by having been kissed at twelve. It wasn't even the type of kissing they were looking for! Although, the feeling invoked was probably the same. I had felt warm inside, but that was out of the flood of emotions that came from being kissed. Sort of. I could barely think when it had happened, and I felt like there was a void in my head that was filled solely with Misha for several months after that. I wished they were here so that I could kiss them. I may or may not have had a fantasy surrounding the time I would actually kiss them for the first time, where I don't tell them that I’m coming home and show up at their house, and when they answer the door, I kiss them. Or if it’s their mom, I ask to come in and make sure that she  doesn't shout for them to come to the door. I find Misha in their house and we kiss, and it’s like in a Disney movie or a fairy tale, except our lives don't stop after the credits roll, although that’s mostly because we have no credits as non-actors. Besides, when I die, people probably wouldn't make a slideshow of my personal credits even if I asked them to. I would have top billing, then my family, and all my friends and romantic partners would be organized after that alphabetically and in order of appearance. Then all of my schools (So far I had attended five.) and skating teachers. Then there would be some honourable mentions of really good teachers and coaches, and maybe my mom. She did have her philosophical moments. 

“ _ They’re a good kisser, then, _ ” Leo said, like he was prodding me to answer.  

“ _ How should I know? Nothing to compare to, _ ” I said, “ _ Why does it matter who I’ve kissed? It’s still JJ’s turn for truth or dare. _ ” 

“ _ Oh! Yes, right, truth or dare, Beka? _ ” 

“ _ Dare. _ ” JJ pulled both of his lips into his mouth before pouting and sucking in a breath of air. 

“ _ I dare you to…lick the window, _ ” He said. I did it, and then licked my shirt a bunch of times to compensate. I didn't trust the water here. I don't really remember falling asleep, but I’m pretty sure it was three. When I woke up, my head was resting against JJ’s side and his arm was flung across my chest. There was something about it that was so very wrong and hovering just below the surface. Only there was nothing wrong with anything, and I was just being an alarmist over nothing. I sat up and ran a hand through my hair. It was greasy and disgusting on account of not being washed since the day before we came to Chicago. I would have taken a shower in the bathroom that the motel room had, I was just afraid to touch most of the things in the room because of the way they looked. The bathroom was especially bad, with the mold on the shower walls and the cracked toilet with gray water in the bowl. 

I pulled out my phone and listened to some of my own music for a while until JJ and Leo woke up. We went to the city and ate doughnuts for breakfast. That day, we went skating in the morning, and then wandered around for the rest of the day until it was time to sneak into the second act of Wicked. It was wonderful, although Leo was disappointed for whatever reason. He was the one who wanted to see it in the first place. Then again, the original cast of Wicked definitely wasn't still on Broadway in 2014, so maybe that was why. I had heard various musical soundtracks enough in my time to know that the original cast was never still on Broadway. There was something sort of special about walking out of theaters that I couldn't quite place. It happened with movie theaters too. There was a weird phenomenon where I just felt so inspired and hyper after being in a theater, and I had no idea why. I felt like I wanted to stay in New York, and after a while of replaying the songs in my head, I was thinking way too in depth about altering the pitches slightly to fit my strange idea of what music was like. It was either electric as fuck, a capella, or sounded like it was recorded on a potato. However, waking up the next morning was what is commonly known as shitty. The realization that today was the day that Leo and I were going back to Chicago and JJ was flying out to Vancouver was sobering. JJ was one of my best friends and missing people was one of my least favorite activities. It just happened that the emotional side of my brain heavily enjoyed making indulging in frequent negative emotions. God, I needed a therapist or something. 

At the JFK airport, JJ departed with a hug and a promise that we would keep in touch. Leo had a sharpie in his backpack so our little group took a few minutes to write our phone numbers and names on each other’s arms. Of course, I knew their phone numbers, but only Leo’s phone was more than just a small computer, it was a phone. JJ’s phone only worked in Canada and mine only worked in Kazakhstan, which meant that our precious babies were just small computers until we were back in our countries. Of course, it was possible to do things that functioning phones could do when you had WiFi, but since I wasn't a genius hacker who could get into anything I wanted, I didn't always have WiFi. 

The bus ride back to Chicago was a lot quieter than the ride out had been. Leo and I talked a lot about music. He made puns, and started a satirical monologue on the tropes commonly found in television programs. I wondered if I had maybe read too many books as a child and not watched TV enough. Ravil and Aliya sure as hell liked to watch television more than I did, but that was because literature was simply so much more exciting. Books take so much longer to observe than it takes to observe visual media. You learn the people within the pages and are often able to form a more intimate connection with the characters than you can with some actors that you see interacting for two hours. The average speed at which people read is two hundred words in a minute, which means that in a book that’s fifty thousand words, if no breaks are taken, can be finished in a minimum of four hours. I, personally, have the habit of forming deep connections with the characters in books, and turning the last page sometimes feels like all of my best friends just died in a car crash. I guess that was what it felt like every time I left somewhere. Leaving Almaty, and a lot less when I left Saint Petersburg and Chicago, but New York was a little more intense. Fuck the brain’s capability to form emotional connections with ideas and places. 

Back at the apartment in Chicago, we were scolded harshly, but other than that, everything quickly went back to normal. I hated the idea of normalcy and all it provided. But of course, life is a grand series of adventures, and when one grand escapade comes to a close, the next can never be too far beyond one’s line of sight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> howdy friends. i spent a bunch of hours editing this and then going out to dinner with my sister instead of finishing my application for writing college...why oh why must the due date be halloween and not mid november...
> 
> i hope you liked the chapter. if you did, please leave a comment (they will bring you more content and faster).
> 
> tumblr: paraduxkys


	22. 2015.1

2015.1

December 31, 2014

Chicago Midway International Airport

 

In all of my experience riding airplanes, I had somehow never been sitting in the window seat at sunrise. I had also seldom been outside and looking at the sun in the duration of its ascension. It was painfully bright when observed head on, but when in periphery, the sky was beautiful and orange and sandwiched between two layers of cloud. Even though clouds weren't touchable things, I had a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that they weren't touchable. I imagined that this was what a field covered in slightly rumpled snow looked like from above, or maybe the outside of Mount Olympus. 

I was going to Vancouver to this year after receiving an invitation from JJ to train with him again. He was already in the senior division, but I was thinking of making the transfer soon, and the choice to train in Canada seemed like it would aid the transition from a child to an adult. See, JJ’s new coaches were his parents, and they knew what the fuck they were doing. They were skaters when they were young, both solo and together. They had lots of disciples, each of which scored quite high in competitions. And an invitation had been extended to me when one girl left to train in New York City. I thanked coincidence that I knew and was friends with JJ Leroy. 

The plane ride was four and a half hours, and I slept through most of it. Although the sleeping didn't count because it was plane-sleep, and that was the type that didn't give you any rest at all. I was going to be living by myself this time, with my mom paying for me to live in an apartment that was somewhat near the school I was going to be attending. I wished that it was closer to JJ’s house, but his house was in a completely different neighbourhood than my apartment and I could actually walk to school if I didn't mind walking two and a half kilometers alone and before the sun came up during the winter. Which was now. I left the airport with a headache and stuffed up ears and took a taxi to the apartment, where I spent the weekend unloading my stuff and inviting JJ over to help me out. I didn't really need any help; there was already a bed there. I was just lonely and wanted to hang out. I was starting school again on the twentieth or January, which was in five days, and that left me plenty of time to buy plates and cups and food. I shadowed at JJ’s school on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. He had tests in calculus and in forensic science on Monday, which meant for two boring classes, but I also got to meet and hang out with all his other friends. I met his girlfriend, Izzy, who was a very funny person but also sort of shy. She was kind of like JJ but less loud and a lot less graceful. She had bruises and scrapes on her arms and legs from falling down so much and because she ran into doors and tables all the time. 

Izzy was kind, and a talented artist. She had long black hair and slate-blue eyes, which she outlined in black. She was very fond of bright red lipstick, and was painfully optimistic. She and JJ seemed to communicate in their own little version of English, where speaking in first person wasn't a thing that existed. Another of the people in their posse, a boy named Gavi, thought that their relationship was the most adorable thing to grace the face of the Earth. He shipped them, and I thought it was a little weird that he called them a ship to their faces, but JJ actually liked it, so I guess I wasn't one to judge. I just prefered to keep the Tumblr on Tumblr. Fandom was sort of a guilty pleasure of mine and it was so weird to hear Gavi talk out loud about how he shipped JJ and Izzy. And also Phan. But Gavi was a cool guy who had way too much passion and optimism for his own good. And he helped me out a lot with my math homework when I actually started attending West Point Gray for real and not just hanging out in all of JJ’s classes. We actually only had four classes together. I wished that we had lunch together too, but sadly, he was a senior and I was a junior. At least I wasn't a sophomore any longer. I hated that year. And hey, I didn't have to take the SATs like I would if I had stayed in America for another year. That was cool. 

During the last five months of junior year, I actually had a lot of fun. I had been saving up for a while to buy a MacBook, and every time I thought that I had plenty of money and there was really no reason for me not to buy it, I refused to let myself even think about buying the laptop I wanted until I had saved up double the price. Maybe it was because MacBooks were so expensive. The cheapest one I had managed to find on the internet was fifteen hundred dollars, and while I did have ten thousand dollars from sponsorships, endorsements, my prize money, and monthly allowance, I was still sort of afraid to spend money. In America, I had started making a lot of impulse purchases and even though I had started taking tap, those shoes had just been sitting in my room for several months and going unused. I did manage to find a five hundred dollar laptop, though. I wished that I could have just gotten a Chromebook instead. The most expensive one of those that I found online was  three hundred dollars, which was just plain unfair. I had the idea a few years ago to create a mashup of my two songs for the skating season and use that as the music for my exhibition piece, and for the 2015-2016 season, I was using the first minute and a half of O Fortuna and a part that I liked from Victory by Two Steps From Hell. My cell phone had no music mixing app, and even though the last time I mixed two songs, it was relatively well received by the Internet, I had done it in twelve hours on someone else’s laptop in less than ideal conditions. So this time, my mashup would be good and the two very different songs would flow seamlessly together to create the most kickass choral dubstep song to ever be. That was why I needed a regular laptop instead of a Chromebook. Chromebooks only let you use the Google Chrome application, and there probably wasn't a very good sound mixing app that could be bought on a Chromebook, so I got the regular laptop. 

I finished the mashup in a relatively short amount of time, but I never really felt like it was quite perfect, so I kept changing little pieces of it throughout the end of the school year. And before I knew it, I was watching JJ and Izzy graduate high school. The idea of graduation was so weird to me. Like, school was just a thing people did. JJ wasn't going to college, at least not yet, and neither was I. I hated how most schools had midterms right around the time of the GPF. The months building up to it were the most stressful months out of the year, and last year I had to take the PSAT the week before Worlds. I have no idea how Leo managed to do so well at Worlds, because he had to take the actual SAT and be a skating badass at the same time. I was pretty sure that I didn't do very well on the test, and I knew that I didn't do very well at Worlds. I had been getting an average of four hours of sleep per night. I had a difficult time dividing my time between studying, doing my other homework, and making my routine the best it could possibly be. How the hell did people manage to do college and have a skating career at the same time? How did they get good grades and even physically survive long enough to do well in both school and in skating? Where did they get all their money from, and how did they deal with all the stress? 

But anyway, it was May now and now everyone was stressed, although a lot less so, about the grad dance. It was the Canadian version of prom, and whenever there was a school dance to be had, people panicked about who they were going to go with. I didn't even really want to go. I was the only person in my little friend group who wasn't dating anybody. My little friend group consisted of JJ, Izzy, Gavi, a girl named Robin, and another girl named Fiona. JJ and Izzy were dating each other, Gavi had an s.o. named Riley, Robin had a boyfriend named Antoine, and Fiona had a girlfriend named Yvaine. Fiona sometimes pronounced it as ‘Ivan’ because she knew it annoyed her girlfriend. I had become panicked about romance when everyone else’s lives became infused with it. Misha and I didn't text or call as much as we used to, and that scared me. I didn't really find myself needing to talk to them as much as I used to, but they didn't text me as much as they used to, period. And they didn't tell me that they loved me as much. They seemed to be really close with Kyushee, but then there would be times that we would text for hours and hours and then at least one of us would be incredibly sleep deprived the next day. The time difference between Almaty and Vancouver was thirteen hours and when I stayed up until four am talking to Misha, it was nearly impossible to do anything the next day. But then I would be enthused about talking to them again, and we wouldn't have another conversation like that for three weeks and I would get lonely when all of my friends had their dating buddies at the same school, and the person that I was into lived so far away. I kept thinking that maybe if I impressed them somehow, they would talk to me more. I was always terrible at making friends, and here were the consequences.

Why did I think that impressing people was the only way to make people care about me? That was all I had been working for my entire life. I had wanted to be noticed by my dad for quite some time now. Ever since he had first told me that I shouldn't even bother with dance classes because I wouldn't be any good anyway, I had wanted to impress him by becoming the best dancer I could be. I guess that being an internationally recognized athlete wasn't enough, because I still hadn't heard from him in ten years. Maybe my family could be happy if they were brought together again. Maybe that was ludicrous. Look at what happened last time. 

I wanted to impress my grandparents, although I wasn't quite sure how or why. They didn't believe in me in any respect, so I had to do something that would blow their minds and make them think that I was worthy of their support and love. I used to want to impress Misha, the cool kid who was nice to me and did splits really well. I had since stopped caring as much.

I also learned that it wasn't that healthy to be in the mindset that I had to prove to my family that I was talented enough to be worthy of love and support, and that my dad was actually quite a douchebag. I had always known that he was an asshole, but not even Serik ever dared to attach the word ‘abusive’ to his title. However, one night in June when I was with JJ and Gavi, they both told me that my dad had been abusive the second I finished telling the story of how he had given a particularly creative threat to Serik after someone let it slip about his secret boyfriend. I don't know what in particular dad was mad about in that situation: The secret partner, that the partner was a boyfriend, t the existence of the partner, or a combination of all three. He had said that he would tie Serik to the ceiling and leave him there all night. Serik had said that he would just run away instead and dad said that he would change the locks if Serik left. He did wind up leaving, but just for four days and three nights. The locks stayed the same. Gavi said that it was abuse, and for a reason unknown, I shivered at the word. 

“ _ Abuse is a condemning word, _ ” I said, and sat back down. I stared at my vanilla ice cream, my plain, small, vanilla ice cream in a cup. It was melted slightly and shining in the sun. It had become too pretty to eat. 

“ _ Abusers deserve to be condemned, _ ” said Gavi. 

That summer was mostly spent training, and with JJ and Izzy and their crew of chums. JJ’s parents were good coaches, and also just extraordinary people. Since I didn't have a method of transportation upon first arriving in Vancouver, they offered to teach me to ride JJ’s dad’s old motorcycle. And in this case, old meant it was only six or so years old and he had gotten a newer model. All I had to do was not maim the bike, and pay for fuel. I now had the utmost freedom in the world, or at least I would when I learned how to ride. It only took me about a week to learn anyway, and it was technically illegal since I didn't have a license. I mean, I could have just gotten a bus pass but this was a thousand times better. Of course, I wore a helmet. I hated wearing the helmet. The feeling of wind hitting your face so hard your eyes start to tear up and the air running through your hair is one of my favorite feelings, although it can only really be experienced on rollercoasters and probably skydiving, or parasailing, or something like that. It could not, however, be experienced while wearing a helmet with one of those plastic windshield type thingies and sunglasses. I sunburned my forearms and the outsides of my legs, and quickly learned that even if there is wind on the highway, and even if the windchill gives you goosebumps, sunburns can still happen and will still be painful as fuck. I hate sunburns with a ferocious passion. 

Even with all the training and being sunburned, that summer still managed to be one of my favorite summers. I spent most of my time at JJ’s house, and I got to know his younger siblings. Their names were Etienne and Jacqueline, with Jacqueline being eleven and Etienne being nine. They both trained under their parents, and were some of the most passionate little kids I’ve ever met. Their dreams were far fetched and impressive and I hoped that they were never told with words that they couldn't achieve their dreams some day. 

The night of the grad dance was fun for the most part. I stood alone on the side of the room, listening to the music that the DJ was playing with my eyes closed. The little stage with his laptop and the sound mixing table and the speakers that must have been two meters tall was located under the basketball hoop, and even when I was pretty far away, I could barely hear the sounds of the juniors and seniors having their party. The music was so loud I could feel it on the inside of my body. My sternum was a little tingly, and I wondered how long my head would hurt after leaving. I listened to music too much, and since the genesis of the mashup idea, I had been thinking about ways to change nearly every song I heard in really weird ways that wouldn't necessarily improve their quality, but it sounded good in my head. 

It was difficult to say when my time leaning against the wall with my hands in my pockets ended. I would tell you how many songs were played and then try to make a very generalized estimate of the time spent by the wall, but it was difficult to tell when one song ended and the next started. They were all blended seamlessly together, and I wasn't really listening to the words.They say that a good way to learn another language is to listen to music in that language, but my brain doesn't know how to listen to anything other than the raw sounds of the instruments and the melodies created by the singer’s voice, should they be there. When I was learning English, I was told to listen to a lot of pop music, because pop was a good way to get the gist of what someone was saying. I just found the pop music I was recommended to be boring, because there wasn't enough going on. Swells of piano music or arpeggios played on a bass weren't that interesting when that was all that there was to hear in the background for three or so minutes. 

JJ was the one who came up to me first, saying that he wanted to go because it was too loud and there were too many things happening in the gym, but he didn't want to make his friends leave. I didn't really think that Gavi would care; he and Riley. were just leaning on each other and swaying and kissing on the edge of the crowd of people. They could do that anywhere, although goddamn, it’s impressive that they could do that through all of the medium to up tempo songs that were blasting and around so many people who were dancing in more violently passionate or sexual ways. Over near the DJ booth, some of the people in my Pre-Calculus class had begun a dance battle. It looked more like a dance circle, in my opinion, but who was I to judge? A girl named Rosanna was doing the worm, therefore, she was a badass. 

“ _ You should ask Izzy if she wants to leave, _ ” I said. He nodded rapidly, eyes vacantly gazing out over the crowd of people. 

“ _ Can you hold this? _ ” He mumbled, and shrugged off his leather jacket. He dumped it into my hands and then walked away. I shrugged, and slipped the jacket on. It was a mistake. The jacket was so big and heavy and hot, and smelled of perspiration. I kept it on anyway, because I didn't want to hold it in my hands or something like that. JJ did eventually round up everybody, and we all left to go to his house. ‘We’ was the three couples and me, and we all went home in JJ’s car. It was a station wagon from the 1980s with wooden panelling on the sides and had three front seats despite being a manual. The gearshift was just a lot further forward than it would be under normal circumstances. He said that he didn't really want anyone to sit there because he didn't want to have to reach between someone’s legs to get the gearshift .  Izzy made a big, sarcastic show of sitting there at first, but the back of her skirt covered the stick a little so she was kicked to the passenger seat. 

There was a bench in the back, which Fiona, Antoine, Gavi and I were crammed into, in that order from right to left. Our laps were used as another bench, where Robin sat on Antoine’s lap, and Yvaine and Riley shared the remaining three humans as seats. Yvaine was sitting upright like a normal person, but Riley had decided that they were going to sit horizontally, which meant leaning against the wall that was next to me with their feet touching Robin’s knees. Riley had originally been wearing heels but had taken them off. Gavi had been wearing Air Jordans, and they had taken the laces out of his shoes so that the heels could be tied together and then tied to the little belt that was more for fashion than anything else that was around Riley’s waist. The car ride back to JJ’s house was loud, and when we got there, I felt sort of awkward because of all the couples. I felt happy for them of course; there was no way not to. I had seen the getting together of Gavi and Riley, and of course JJ was one of my closest friends currently residing upon the North American continent, and then everyone else was nice and fun to be around. But I still felt like I needed someone I to put my arm around and to hold on the walk up the steps to JJ’s house. Maybe it was just because all the other couples just started being all soft and cuddly as soon as we all arrived in JJ’s living room. 

A movie was put on the television, and I think I was the only one who was able to stay awake through all of it. I texted Misha through the first part but they had to go to to work (They had two jobs; one of which was at the tattoo and piercing parlour owned by their father and one of them was at a radio station.) so I was left on my own. I didn't really care about what was happening in the movie, and spent a while on Instagram and Tumblr before the end of the movie graced the screen and I was very confused, to say the least. Then again, it was Titanic, so I probably knew most of what there already was to know about what happened factually and shouldn't care too much about the fictional story. I texted Leo for a little while, before waking JJ up to tell him that I was going home. I don't know if he even did wake up, but with all hope he did. The apartment was fifteen kilometers away and I spent the better part of three hours walking there. I was slightly afraid. The distance was far and I had to use the skills of walking along a busy highway that were learned on the trip to New York City. I wanted to play the music I had on my phone at certain points, but I was without my headphones and didn't want to attract attention. Especially not after reaching the more urban area of town at about one in the morning. I made a detour through a park that was on an island, and sat under a tree for a little while. My feet hurt from walking so far. 

During my break under the tree, I realized that I had nearly everything that mattered to me in my pockets. My cell phone and my wallet were in the back pockets of my pants, and my skates may have been at the apartment , but nobody needed their figure skates to survive. I laughed at how all of what I needed was right here. Enough money to last a day or two, and my cell phone. Enough human contact wherever there was WiFi. I laughed aloud at how people thought that they needed so many things and how everybody had so, so much at their houses or wherever it was that they lived, but all that was really needed was shelter, clean air, water, and food. What was the point of living in a mansion? People probably thought I was crazy, I realized. I was a sixteen year old boy sitting under a tree in a public park at one in the morning with my wallet and my cell phone on my lap, laughing at what probably appeared to be nothing. Even my laugh had an accent, and anybody who felt like it could come up to me and steal my phone or my wallet and I wouldn't have the capabilities to get either of them back. The last time I had been in anything even resembling a fight, I had broken my thumb and my wrist simply by virtue of not knowing how to punch right. I knew how to punch now, and I was so much stronger than I had been, but strength was nothing without control. 

I rested under the tree for a little longer before stripping my feet bare to look at them. They were so red and ugly and that also made me laugh. People were so fragile and yet they put their bodies through so much. How was it that I could make my feet bleed with an afternoon on the ice but couldn't manage breaking the skin on the insides of my thighs? Why was there no fear in something that had potential to make it so that I could never walk properly again and a multitude of fear in something that would soon be nothing more than a thin line of white that stung when I took showers? To me, that was hilarious. Maybe I was crazy after all. 

I left the park, but didn't put my shoes and socks back on. I carried one of them in each hand, and in each shoe there was a sock that had either my phone or my wallet inside. When I finally arrived at the apartment, I noticed that blood had erupted from the last three toes on my left foot. It was pooled around the nail beds and stemmed from the small knuckles on each of them. 

“Oh no,” I said calmly. I set my shoes down on the kitchen counter and went to my bedroom to get three little bandaids out of their box, which had been left in the same spot on the floor since I first got them. I wrapped one around each of the bleeding toe knuckles and then went back out to the kitchen to get my cell phone out of my shoe. I went back to my bedroom and unbuttoned my shirt but didn't take it off. It was nearly four in the morning and I had to be at the rink in five hours. I laughed once more, and plugged my cell phone into the wall. As soon as I closed my eyes, I was asleep. 

The next day when I woke up, it was with a pounding headache and a loss of will to live. My body hurt in the least favorable ways possible: My entire lower half felt like it was going to break off if I moved, specifically my feet. My shoulders ached, and I had no feeling in my right arm after sleeping on it all night. I first noticed the pain in my shoulders when I sat up and pulled the dress shirt off. I threw it on the floor and winced. I fell back down to lay on the bed, and reached to the right to grab my phone from the nightstand. I had notifications from Instagram and Skype and Google Hangouts, and I didn't want to answer any of them now because even though it was pretty late to be waking up, I had been stupid and walked home from JJ’s house and then taken my shoes off like someone who had just learned that formal shoes were painful as hell. Then again, I didn't have a lot to be complaining about. I could have been in stilettos or something. 

I checked the notifications on my phone, shooting straight up upon reading Misha’s latest Instagram posts. I had totally forgotten that they were finishing high school on Thursday. They had gone clubbing last night with some of their friends who I had heard of but scarcely met in person. Misha actually had quite a small bubble of friends, which was something I did not expect in the slightest when I was a kid. They were so…good at people. They were friends with everyone in ballet, and seemed as if they had a lot of friends from school. I wondered what our lives would have been like if we had gone to the same school when we were kids. Of course, we wouldn't have any classes together, except for maybe a foreign language class or a math class, depending on placement. I had taken two math classes in my first year of high school, and I would have done it too in sophomore year, but I decided to take forensic science along with chemistry and then my plan to double up on classes was forgone this year because electives sounded like fun and I had yet to experience one at this point in my life. I was now in creative writing with Gavi, or at least I would be for the next two weeks. Graduation was something strange. You spent thirteen years working your ass off only to be told that you could do whatever you wanted. Some people spent more than seventeen, and what must it have been like to come out of that finding that there was nothing for you on the other side but what you could accomplish by yourself? People spent their entire lives being given instructions on how to do everything and then they were just supposed to figure it out alone once they were in their mid twenties.  

Instagram had two things to say; one being that Yuri Plisetsky had made a post. It was a selfie, of him with a black hood over his head and what looked like a piece of bread was in his mouth. His hair, which normally covered the right side of his face, was pulled back.The caption read  **home is where the food is #moscow** . I liked it without thinking. The next thing to be seen on the Instagram application was the brand-new account of Aliya Altin. Her name was  **aabattery** , and so far she had made one post. She was sitting in the passenger seat of a car, bathed in a soft orange light. It made her skin look sort of golden. Her hair was straightened and tossed over her right shoulder in ebony waves that were just a tiny bit too perfect to have been natural. Her eyes were outlined heavily in black, and there was just a little bit of purple glitter behind her eyelashes. She had on bright red lipstick, but aside from what she had done with her eyes, her face was free of any additional makeup. She was covered in acne and freckles and she was beautiful with her perfect hair and lips just the right shade of red. She was all darkness, with her black hair, her black eyes and eyeliner, her black leather jacket, and the lipstick gave a great contrast to how almost everything in the photograph was so dark. The caption read:  **aabattery:** hey babe, guess where i am tonight. My little sister was all grown up and I hadn't even gotten to see it happen. I had a realization that I had gone away and that when I went back home, I would not be met with my image of Aliya, I would be met with this teenager who was using Instagram to say that she was meeting her romantic counterpart somewhere. There was something about it that rubbed me the wrong way. I hadn't seen her since she was twelve and she was now fifteen, so I really shouldn't have thought anything of it- I too thought way too much about romance given my career at age fifteen- but the idea of communications with people where the entire would could see freaked me out. If someone knew something about you without you telling them, they had the capacity to control you. 

I sat up, and went into the kitchen to get a glass of water. I held the cup up to my mouth throughout the duration of the drinking, but only allowed small amounts of water into my mouth while I stared at the blinds. I would have stared out the window, but you could hardly ever do that because I was hardly ever home, and I didn't like to have the blinds open when I wasn't home. My head hurt a tad, although what really hurt were my feet and legs. Apparently full comprehension of how incredibly stupid it was to walk sixteen kilometers in the middle of the night was something that had to be learned instead of told. I checked the time, and found that it was much later in the day than I had thought it was. I had to be on the ice in forty five minutes, although frankly, I didn't want to be there right now. It was the first of June, which meant that time was best spent on music design and choreography for now. I found writing choreography to be quite difficult because I couldn't just instinctively tell what was perfect like a lot of other people seemed to be able to. I could come up with little snippets of movement, but it was frequent that they didn't at all seem like they could possibly be a part of the same bigger picture. 

I finished my water, but still held the cup to my mouth. I exhaled and the clear plastic became cloudy. I set it down on the table and left to get ready. It was warm outside when I left the apartment and even warmer when I got to the rink. That was how most days went after school ended. JJ had suddenly become prone to existential crises sometime near the end of June, and wondered every day if he should even go to the university that he was supposed to start at the end of summer. 

“ _ You have to, _ ” I told him one day. It was cloudy and windy, and the only way you could tell it was still summer was by the green leaves on the trees. 

“ _ I already have a job, _ ” He said.

“ _ Nobody skates forever. _ ” 

“ _ I can go to college when I’m done with that. _ ” 

“ _ Advanced procrastination. _ ” He looked displeased. 

“ _ It may not be motivation, but you have a great…resume. _ ” I said slowly, “ _ Young, rich, athletic, good grades…That’s what colleges look for. _ ” 

“ _ But do I want to, Beka? _ ” He asked. He sat up from his spot on the floor. 

“ _ Do you? _ ” I asked.

“ _ Y-Yes, _ ” He said, “ _ I guess. I don't like school ‘cause its learning but without the fun, and there’s so much stuff that just gets in the way of, like, life. _ ” He sighed. “ _ My mind was not meant for so much school. _ ”

“ _ That means you’ve beaten the system, _ ” I said. JJ continued to doubt whether he should go or not for the rest of summer. Of course, he did end up going to UBC seeing as no amount of existentialism could argue with the pressure of one’s parents. Both my parents have bachelor’s degrees, and they’d probably expect that all my siblings and I would accomplish the same. A lot of the time, people set their own lives as a standard, and that standard was passed on to their children. It would probably be a lot worse for JJ. He was part of a family figure skating dynasty, full of gold medalists and sometimes arrogant folks. I didn't know how he was capable of his healthy relationship, GPA, friendships, and gold medals, and I didn't know whether I should have been impressed or pity him. People who have those things are always riddled with anxiety. I was bad enough myself, having good grades and an okay career. 

The rest of the summer was amazing, and on days without workouts, I felt more normal. I went on bike rides everywhere, refusing to drive or ride with anyone more often than not. It was strange- I loved the interactions and the people, and riding on busses or in someone’s car was wonderful and all, but until you could feel the wind on your face, you wouldn't understand. It may just sound like complete bullshit, but I didn't have one of those fancy helmets with a face guard. It was actually more like a sturdy bicycle helmet. Being hit by so much wind at a time hurt, and it made your face feel like it was winter. I loved the physical sensations that came with riding motorcycles. My fingers got tired while holding the bars, and my legs sometimes wobbled after I stood up again. It was hard to explain, but still rejuvenating. 

The rest of the summer was wonderful, and I don't think I went to sleep when the clock still said ‘pm’ very often. I went to concerts and parties and was introduced to everyone that JJ had ever known in Vancouver. All the young people were doing things for the last time and all the old people had a look in their eyes that said they had seen this happen a million times before. Anywhere could feel like a small town if you knew enough people. 

The rest of the summer was fantastic. I pretended not to stare at the few people who commanded attention. Their beauty, even though they all were beautiful, wasn't the thing that drew your eye, though. It was the way she had done her hair that morning, or how his eyes focused on something, or a whole manner of other things like the way someone bit their lip when focussing. I didn't want to say that they were beautiful or pretty even though they all were. I felt the need to look at them, but I was just a kid from a country on the other side of the world nobody cared about. Why would someone want me to look at them? 

The calendar said that the last day of summer this year would be 23 September. For me, it would end on 1 September. I wasn't cheating time or planning a suicide or anything, I was getting on a plane to Almaty. There wasn't very much time left on my visa, although that was because I had been getting the shorter ones for the past two years because I didn't really like America all that much. I was lonely even if I was almost never alone. And hey, now I was a lot better at skating. In Russia, there was a math teacher who said that once you learned something, it would stick with you forever no matter what. And I’m sure that there were people who had taken care of the business side of their careers as well as taking care of the physical side. It would only be temporary, of course. Even if I didn't have money, I knew how to get some and how to lie, so hiring somebody wouldn't be a problem. I felt homesick for a life that wasn't even that great, which isn't to say that America and Canada suck, but rather that I’m biased and don't easily adjust to things.

During the remaining days before everyone I knew scattered outward across the world from Vancouver, I played an imagination game. I made up a different versions of myself on the spot whenever I went to a party, and told the story of that boy’s life to whoever wanted to talk to me. I liked to dance alone and near the sides of the room. When I was over there, nobody would be able to tell that I wasn't dancing at all. I was counting the beats of the music and identifying notes and imagining what the instrument looked like while it was being played. As much as I loved dancing, I had found myself trying to learn how to read sheet music. I would be able to edit songs better, and be able to dance and choreograph better. Aside from knowing where in the song to move, I would be able to know which notes went with which movements. 

There were times, though, when focusing on music whilst flapping my limbs about was not socially acceptable. I probably wouldn't go to parties or clubs or any of those places if my friends weren't going, and the whole point of going to parties and clubs was to hang out together and forget that we had responsibilities. A lot of time was spent on getting ready, though. I found that the tradition of getting ready to go out with everyone was more fun than the actual outing. The girls did their makeup and the boys picked out their favorite pair of jeans and a nice shirt. I liked to wear leather jackets with everything. I had two of them now. The brown one that was a hand me down from Serik, and a tighter black one that I got soon after I was granted to freedom to rent a motorcycle from my friend’s parents. 

On very few occasions, people tried to talk to me. Sometimes people asked if I wanted to get a drink, but I told them that I wasn't old enough to drink and people left me alone. I didn't really understand the appeal of being drunk. You were stupid when you were drunk. I would rather continue to observe other people and listen to the music than become preoccupied with whatever my drunk mind would come up with. Oddly enough, the days blurred together and it was the middle of August when the day previous had been 1 July and I had been out until one seeing the fireworks show off Jericho Beach. There were some days where I could tell that I would miss the current events for years to come. How exactly had I come to be sixteen years old? That was such a long time to wait, and how much of that time had blurred away and faded due to too much similarity? That was where the things that I would miss became worthless. The ‘glamour’ of partying was not my entire life, though. The rest was occupied by work in the summer. Work was waking up early relative to the time at which I had gone to sleep and training seven hours a day. I knew that I would not remember most of that summer. It would be categorized as short yet long and I would remember only what was significant.

The human race was plagued indefinitely by such afflictions of memory. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry its late. life is stress. updates will probably be monthly or bi-monthly until march due to conflicts within my life. i dont usually have a lot of time to write, and i've been feeling uninspired as of late, so hopefully 2016 will be published before the end of the year. 
> 
> dying noises. 
> 
> www.paraduxkys.tumblr.com
> 
> happy birthday katsuki yuuri you shall be 25 in two days


	23. 2015.2

September first was very significant, as it was the day after the thirty first of August. On that day, I went on a run in the morning and then went to the ice rink and in my time off I packed a suitcase. I texted my mother and Aliya, and watched a documentary about World War I. I got a lot of sleep and felt well rested the next day. Imagine how often that happened. The answer is rarely. The plane left at noon, and before then, I went to JJ’s house and we sat three feet apart on one of the couches in the downstairs living room and watched The Perks Of Being A Wallflower. He didn't talk very much, which I disliked, because he did most of the talking in our friendship. There was a weird tension in the air that cropped up somewhere around the middle of the movie, when he looked at me and didn't stop for several minutes. 

“ _ What? _ ” I asked. 

“ _ W-What do you mean what? _ ” JJ asked. 

“ _ Why are you looking at me, and why do you look sad? _ ” He frowned. 

“ _ I’m allowed to look at you, Otabek, _ ” He said. I shook my head, and turned to face him, the movie cast aside. 

“ _ You’re quiet and…melancholy, and that’s not usually what you’re like, _ ” I said. 

_ “All my friends are leaving. _ ”

“ _ Izzy is still in Vancouver. _ ” 

“ _ We don't go to the same school anymore, which means I don't get to see her every day. And y’all know that I suck at communication. I’m scared that I’ll never talk to anyone again outside of, like, Christmas and Thanksgiving. That’s not very JJ style. _ ” 

“ _ No, you- if you love these people, you will talk to them. That is your style, _ ” I said, “ _ And, dude, they will talk to you. How long have you known Izzy? _ ”

“ _ We met when we were three. _ ” 

“ _ And you kept talking to her when you were in America. You kept contact with everyone when you were in America, and you will over the next however many years you’re apart. _ ” He smiled lopsidedly.

“ _ Thanks, _ ” He said, “ _ But what about you? You’ll be on the other side of the freaking world! Which is very far away! _ ” 

“ _ I talk to my family still, _ ” I told him. He looked very surprised. 

“ _ How?! _ ” 

“ _ The city I’m from is 14 hours ahead of Vancouver, so we talk in the mornings and evenings, _ ” I looked down at my watch. “ _ It’s almost three in the morning there. _ ” JJ looked like he was watching a hamster perform gymnastics tricks while doing algebra. It was really just simple math. After I explained how I talked to my family, JJ started talking about Izzy, and then he started to nitpick the movie, and by the time I was in his car and on the way to the airport, he was doing all the talking and sounded very happy indeed. He walked with me to the security line, where he hugged me just a little bit too tight and a little bit too long. He had to bend down slightly to get his arms around my waist, so I stood on my toes to make it easier. 

“ _ See you in China, _ ” He said, and then let go of me. I was completely unprepared, so I stumbled, but just a little bit. I didn't fall down or do anything too awkward. 

“ _ See you then, _ ” I said, and then paused before nearly laughing out loud.  _ “Jimmy John. _ ” 

“ _ Oh my God, would you please stop saying that? _ ” I shook my head. 

“ _ You’re the one who calls yourself JJ. _ ” 

“ _ You think you’re so smart ‘cause you know what a J looks like-” _

_ “See you in China! _ ” I said, trying not to smile too wide. I stepped into the security line and away I was whisked by the people getting in line behind me. It wasn't until I was in the gate for the plane that I could text JJ a serious goodbye and text my mom. 

 

T minus 20 hours until arrival.

Me 3:30

 

**I’m excited to see my baby boy after so long!**

**мама 3:30**

 

Im excited to come home. 

Me 3:31

 

**♡**

**мама 3:32**

 

I quickly took a selfie and sent it to Mama, before debating it and sending the same copy of the selfie to Misha without any caption or anything. I felt the compulsive urge to giggle, but instead, I disconnected from the already weak airport WiFi and put my phone in airplane mode. I didn't know what to do with my hands or anything, and all I wanted to do was just text the entire plane flight. Instead, I read a book about music theory and tried to sleep. It was ineffective, as airplane sleep always was. I wanted to sleep and take a shower more than anything else by the time the plane landed. The air inside the plane had gone stale, most of it having been in there for a couple days. My legs aches just a bit and I smelled like slightly expired meat. 

It was the most exciting thing to turn on my phone and see that I had service. The triangle that was usually just an outline was now filled halfway with the color white, and when I turned off airplane mode, it was flooded with notifications. I felt the urge to giggle and show strangers my discovery, although only around half of the people on the plane looked like they were Asian, and I didn't feel like speaking English anymore. I didn't even feel like being awake anymore. It had been over a day since I had gotten any sort of sleep and I was exhausted, even though I didn't usually get enough sleep. Then again, I didn't usually go on transcontinental plane flights that lasted an entire day. I traced the cracks on the sleeve of my leather jacket for a little bit until myself and the other Air Canada voyagers were allowed to leave, and got to walking through the airport and through customs. I kept rubbing my thumb over the power button of my phone as I walked around. I didn't want to open any of the messages until I got to my house- My house! The place of my childhood, with the stupid fucking piece of electrical tape on the bedroom floor, and the peephole in the door that was too high for anyone in my family to look through, and the siding that was so beautiful in the way that nobody who could afford better would ever live there. We probably could afford better, to be honest, but if there was anything I had learned, it was that nobody in my family understood money at all. 

As I headed closer to the baggage claim, I realized that I was going to a place that had grown without me. I would be a puzzle piece trying to cram itself where it didn't belong. My stomach started to hurt as I thought more about people. Everyone was grown up now. Misha had found lovers and a hundred other people to make their life full. Aliya had a partner of her own, and Ravil had a child. Serik was getting married next May, and then there was me. While they were off living their lives, I had been living in the cracks between work and school. Their cracks had been full of love and sex and beauty and pain.

In twenty minutes, my stomach had graduated from a slight queasy feeling to downright rebellious, and I couldn't tell if I was eager to see my people again or if I was scared of coming across them. There was no going back now, however, not even a way to hide. I had my suitcases, and was lazily scanning the crowded room for a familiar face. My phone had been buzzing consistently for the past several minutes, and only now did I pull it from my pocket and look at what was on the screen. My mom was supposedly in this general area as well, although I couldn't find her with my visual scan. What if her appearance had changed somehow? She was a fifty year old woman, though, she wasn't exactly likely to dye her hair pink or get a mohawk or something like that. In fact, the craziest thing about her appearance had been pierced ears. She was a short woman with black hair down to the middle of her back and eyes just as dark. They were almond shaped and had spiderweb wrinkles around the corners. Maybe if you drew a silhouette of her eyes and their wrinkles, they would look like beta fish. 

I was too focussed on finding my mother to notice the teenage girl practically doing jumping jacks near the far left of my vision until she shouted ‘Beka!’ and started running towards me. At that point I was struck by a miniature heart attack, before I realized that she was none other than Aliya Altin. What she actually did was skid to a stop and trip over her own feet before standing up and squinting at my face. 

“You look funny now that you’re old,” She said. I smiled so big it hurt. 

“Same to you,” I said. It was true. Her hair was so long that it could be braided into several small braids which were then braided into a much larger braid, which came down to the middle of her torso. She must have not gotten it cut in a really long time. She was wearing makeup as well. She didn't have any foundation on her face but other than that she had done a really nice smokey eye and winged her eyeliner to a point that could probably break skin were it the point of a sword. She was dressed in a currant colored crop top and torn up jeans, which was so, so strange. When we were young, she had come home one day saying that her teacher had accidentally called her ‘Otabek’. In those days, her hair couldn't have been longer than her chin and dressed in boy’s clothes from the early nineteen nineties. She squinted at me now, like she was trying to figure something out. 

“Why do you sound American?” 

“What?”

“Okay, you don't sound like you’re from America, but you sound…different I guess? Like a half-American, half-normal accent,” She said, “Is that where your true self lives?” I shook my head. She sighed, and then her eyes went wide. “Oh my God! You got a haircut!” She gasped excitedly, “Can I touch it?” She didn't wait to be permissed. Instead, she reached out to touch my head. I had gotten the sides and back shaved, leaving a couple centimeters of hair on the top. I wanted to get a tattoo on my scalp and then grow hair over it again, but JJ had managed to talk me out of it. What was the point of a tattoo if nobody could see it? I didn't think that anyone he slept with would be too fond of the tramp stamp he had of his own initials, but hey, at least people could cringe at how pretentious it was. 

“You may not touch it,” I said, but Aliya didn't listen. 

“If cats were made of velvet, this is what they would feel like,” She said, in a weird sort of awe. Her eyes suddenly went wide and alert, and I looked over my shoulder. There was nothing there, and while I was looking, Aliya threw her arms around me and hugged me tightly. She was a lot stronger than she looked, and held me for just long enough that I was thankful to be able to breathe upon release. 

“Sorry,” She said sheepishly, “Forgot to do that before.” I nodded, 

“Thank you?” She nodded back. 

“Mom’s waiting in the car, by the way,” Aliya said, and gestured over her shoulder with her thumb. I nodded again, and then asked,

“Is it a new car?” Aliya shook her head, starting to walk backwards. She took one of my suitcases, and I followed her. 

“One of the tail lights got smashed a couple years ago though. Mom thought it was Ravil, ‘cause he was out that night, but it was actually my friend Zea,” She said, smiling softly. 

“Isn't it illegal to have broken tail lights?” I asked. Aliya shrugged. We left the airport and went to Mom’s minivan, which was parked in the farthest possible parking spot from the door. She was inside, and didn't get out while Aliya and I loaded the suitcases into the trunk of the car. She didn't say hello until I got into the car. She had a huge smile on her face, and pulled me into an awkward hug over the center console. She held me for a couple of silent minutes, before pushing me away and squeezing my shoulders shortly. 

“Welcome home!” She said, and ran a hand through her hair. It had a lot more gray in it now than it used to. “I’ll try to save the questions for when we get home, but I have one for now. How does it feel to get a medal?” 

“Really good,” I said, as she started to pull out of the parking spot. “Its probably one of the best feelings in the world.” That didn't even begin to describe it. That could even be said of competing in general, as the adrenaline high kicked in and your muscles didn't hurt until after you came back down again. That was my theory as to why people always performed better in a competition or a performance than they did in practice. Good as you may have been in practice, it never meant as much as it would in a competition, and that same adrenaline couldn't be present. It wasn't good to rely on a hormone to have a good performance, I knew, but I did think that it was important because it gave you a little extra edge. I had only won a couple medals, four of which were bronze and three of which were silver, but nothing gold. And the silvers I had were all from qualifiers, so they didn't count very much. I won't lie about the sense of accomplishment and pride that getting a medal gives, but I also won't lie and say that I’m selfless when it comes to victory. Everyone feels greed from _needing_ to win, but maybe a few don't feel the same fury at not being the best. I was mad and ashamed that I had never come in first, and that fire raged just below the skin for so long after being second or third best, and it burned worse after being some shitty number like fifth best. I hated everything about not being the best, even when I knew that I should have practiced more, and I should have done better. I was going to be practicing a lot and very hard now that I was back. Maybe I would consult Leyla Darzi about her coach. She was, after all the only other big figure skater in Kazakhstan. 

“How many do you got?” Aliya asked from the back seat. I looked over my shoulder to see her sitting in the middle of the bench, legs spread and back hunched with her elbows on her knees. 

“S-Seven,” I said, suddenly hot inside. 

“Seven is one of the smallest prime numbers,” Aliya said wistfully. I didn't understand. I mean, she was correct, but what did that have to do with anything?

“You can't have seven,” Mama said softly, “Isn't that a lot?” 

“N-Not really? There’s only a few competitions in a season, so when you spread that out over four years, that’s not very many. Although there are people who can win everything year after year.” 

“Where do you usually do best?” Aliya asked, “See, ‘cause they’ve got that one that’s just for Asian people, and they you’ve got, like, Minami and Ji to watch out for, and the Mongolian what’s-his-face, but then all the good Asian skaters are too old, and-”

“I’m too old, as you put it,” I said, “I’m going to be with the old people this year.” Aliya’s cheek muscles flexed and there was a toothy grin covering her face. 

“Fuckin’ badass!” She clapped, and then whooped when we got to a stop light. “But wait, there’s better Asians than you in senior’s,” She said, “Yuuri Katsuki, Phichit-” 

“Yes, I know, but there’s better people from everywhere, Aliya. I just have to up my game a little. I’ll come home with something gold soon enough.” 

“Some people already call you a hero,” Mama said. 

“That nickname sucks,” Aliya said. 

“Why do you hate it so much, Liya?” 

“Because,” She said, rolling her eyes, “He’s not a fucking hero, he’s a sixteen year old who’s really good at skating! He- He didn't win a war that saved the country or something! You’ve never even won gold, and they call you ‘the hero of Kazakhstan?’ Please.” Aliya scoffed and fell back against the seat, crossing her arms. She rolled her eyes. 

“I don't understand why you hate it so much, it’s just a nickname,” Mom said. 

“I think its pretentious,” I said softly. 

“You should be proud!” Mama said, “People are calling you a hero for God’s sake, take the compliment!” Aliya bit her lips and rolled her eyes. I slouched a little bit in my seat. The conversation followed in a similar fashion until we arrived at the house. Aliya and Mom argued the entire drive home, which I was not fond of. The house was an hour away from the airport, and Aliya had a lot to talk about. Most of it was related to her friend Zea. Mom didn't really like Zea. She glared at the road in front of her when Zea was brought up, but Aliya didn't notice. She smiled when she talked about them, and got lost in telling stories about the two of them. Zea sounded nice but also like they could fuck you up for life if you hurt them. 

When we finally arrived at home, Aliya was saying that she thought that she should be allowed to drink with her friends if she wanted to, and Mom was explaining why it was a bad idea. 

“Aliya. You are not allowed to drink in my house until you’re eighteen,” She put the car in park and undid her seatbelt. 

“That’s not fucking fair! Serik did, Ravil did, and I will bet you my left arm that Beka went binge-drinking at least once when he was away!” 

“You owe mom your left arm,” I mumbled, and Aliya pushed her door open angrily. 

“Allowing them to do that was a mistake, and I have no control over what my son does when he’s on the other side of the world,” Mama said. I got out of the car to find that one of my suitcases was already on the sidewalk in front of our house. I took the next one out of the car. 

“So if I went out tonight and came home drunk you’d be fine with it?” Aliya asked. 

“Liya, we are done having this conversation. No alcohol until you’re eighteen,” Mom said. 

“But-”

“No ‘buts’. Help him with his suitcases,” She said, and walked up to unlock the door. I had the last suitcase in my hands, and Aliya tore it out of my hands. She took one of the other ones too, and wheeled them up to the house.

“God, she’s so annoying. She thinks she can control everything I do and it’s so- so fucking obnoxious, I can't stand it! Like, Serik can drop out of high school and still wind up with a fucking Masters, Ravil can have a baby at eighteen, you can travel the world as a fucking preteen, but I can't go out with my girls? That’s a disgusting double standard,” Aliya huffed. She kicked the door a little further open and stepped inside. I stepped in after. There was a new rug on the floor. It was red and oval-shaped, and looked very old even though it couldn't have been there all that long. The blinds were up and the lights were off, creating what was almost a silhouette around the outline of the man sitting on the couch. I could see a little bit of color near the outside edges of his form, but the middle of his face was completely black. He could have been faceless for all I knew. The man stood up and crossed the room, and was revealed by the magical properties of light to be Ravil Altin. He hugged me, quickly but tight. 

“Welcome home,” He said softly. His voice had become so much more gravelly, and mature. He had eye bags that came down to just above his cheekbones. They were several shades darker than the rest of his face, and there were wrinkles across his forehead and tear ducts. His hair had grown out significantly, now just above his shoulders. It was greasy, a fact he had tried to hide by pulling it back into a bun. 

“When was the last time you took a shower?” I asked. He smelled like onions and raw chicken. 

“Same to you, pal,” He said, sarcastically. 

“Beka needs to meet Sam!” Aliya shouted. Ravil raised an eyebrow. 

“Do you want to fuckin’ kill me? She just fell asleep-” 

“She’s never met her uncle!” Aliya said, “She doesn't even know he exists, she needs to meet him!” 

“When she’s awake. God, Liya, you need to learn to take your meds,” He scoffed, and took to steps back before collapsing on the couch. 

“The fuck? I’m not on any meds, jackass.” 

“Not even birth control?” 

“W-What?” She turned pink. 

“You can't be friends with all those guys and not be banging at least one of them,” Ravil said, “Get on the pill if you already aren't.” 

“First off, fuck you, second, you know that’s not true,” Aliya said, sitting on the opposite end of the couch. 

“Okay!” Mom yelled, a bit too loudly. She clapped her hands. “You two, stop talking about pills and who she’s sleeping with. We don't need to know, and its an invasion of her privacy. And aren't you curious about how your brother’s time in America was?” Ravil rolled his eyes. He said sarcastically and maliciously, 

“Ah, yes, I’m sorry, I forgot to ask how many cocks-”

“Please don't finish that question,” I said. I felt hot, like the way you feel before you’re about to cry. Only I didn't start crying, and it never started feeling better. Fuck you, Ravil. I hope you die an unpleasant death. 

My family talked to me about my time away for quite some time, and Aliya received a sort of sick satisfaction from knowing that there was a McDonald’s across the street from Leo’s apartment. Her reactions to things were generally very strange, like the disappointment that not every stereotype about America is true. She thought that six people was too big for an American family, and was very impressed with the New York escapade. My mother was not.

I met Samiya for the first time, when she woke up at one in the afternoon. Ravil refused to let me hold her, or even touch her that much. She was almost three, he said, and he looked at her with so much fondness that I resolved to never tell her much about him when he was young. I’ve never understood why people think babies are beautiful or cute or any of that- They’re just not as developed as adults. A baby couldn't speak in powerful metaphors the same way a seasoned adult could, and they would never be as resplendent as something dangerous. Age was what it took to become smart, and a lot of thinking was what it took to become the right kind of smart. 

My old bedroom was full of the mess that covered Ravil’s side of the room, and his side of the room now held a crib, where Samiya slept. I rifled through my old dresser in search of clothing that no longer fit. Most of it consisted of shirts that I didn't like at the time I had left, although there were a couple pairs of leggings, one with camo-print, another bright purple, and the third a pair that was just lighter than my skin. There were a handful of very old pairs of ballet shoes, probably from before my feet stopped growing and we needed to buy a new pair every year or two, and a pair of jazz shoes that looked like they would fit Samiya in a couple years. They probably hadn't been in use for most of a decade. I had started dancing when I was five, and my, how things had changed. I did more contemporary these days, as it had a higher emphasis on power than ballet did. Ballet was an actor’s dance, while contemporary dance was for storytellers. Once I found a good story to tell, it would be a useful skill. 

My bed was cold, and didn't get warm even after I had been sleeping in it for several hours. My phone had blown up overnight with text messages and calls, and everything else that you could get messages on. Most of them were from Misha, and most of them were dated with either yesterday or today. I didn't want to read through everything that had somehow been missed over the last few days, so I simply sent them a text message: 

 

Do you want to get lunch today?

Me 8:29

 

**100%**

**Миша 8:30**

 

**can you come to my house firzt?**

**Миша 8:30**

 

**@ like 11 or smth**

**Миша 8:30**

 

I will be there.

Me 8:31

 

I panicked about going to their house at first, but became slightly more calm after eating breakfast and drinking some ginger tea. I sat on the couch while drinking it, and watched Aliya text and Ravil watch Samiya. He sang to her, softly and off key. Sometimes he sang lullabies and other times he sang songs with lyrics so demeaning that how he made them sound so affectionate was beyond me. It was even more comical that the television was on in the background, while a newscaster told the story of a pimp that had just been jailed. Around ten, I went upstairs to take a shower. The shower curtain had been changed. It was pastel plaid, which I thought looked terrible. 

I showered, and then went to my room to get dressed. All of my clothes were still in my suitcases, and smelled like airplane. They were cold to the touch, and I couldn't really find anything I liked, so I eventually settled on a pair of ripped black jeans and a burgundy tee shirt. I put on a leather jacket as well, even though it was probably around thirty degrees outside. I could always take it off, and people would definitely do a double take at seeing a guy with a leather jacket tied around his waist in thirty degree weather. Misha’s house was pretty far away from mine, so Ravil drove me on his way to his shift at the grocery store he worked at. He dropped me off about half a kilometer away, and by the time I got there, I was covered in sweat from nervousness, anxiety-induced speed walking, and dressing for winter when it was one of the summeriest days of the year. I climbed the three steps to arrive on their porch, and took a deep breath before ringing the doorbell. As soon as I’d done it I wondered if it was a mistake. Was it even okay to feel the way I felt? I wanted to be there, and I wanted to see them again. Going on any sort of pseudo date was made awkward with the knowledge that they had a girlfriend. 

Misha’s dad opened the door, and squinted at me like he hadn't expected to actually see someone on the other side of the door. As soon as he opened it, I could hear some very loud but muffled dubstep.

“You look familiar,” He said, “Are you one of Misha’s friends?” 

“I-I’m Otabek,” I said softly. His dad’s eyes lit up. 

“You’ve grown up so much! Come in, come in,” He said, “Misha! Your friend is here!” No sooner than I stepped into the house did the dubstep stop, and increasingly loud footsteps become audible. Misha flew around a corner and into the front room of their house. Their eyes were bright, and oh, God, they were beautiful. They were smiling just a little, and their hair was unkempt. Their dimples were consuming their cheeks, and they were only wearing one sock. They were so tall and heavy when they ran into me, and I nearly fell over. My knees buckled, and it was several seconds before things were right again. I struggled to stand up, but when I did, I noticed that I was making solid eye contact with their sternum. Who the hell let them be so tall? I took a step back and tilted my head up. 

“Hey, Misha,” I said, as casually as I could. They smiled down at me. 

“Hi, Otabek.” Oh my God, they pronounced the т. Not that the people in America and Canada didn't, they just pronounced it as a д. It was a little surprising to hear, but I had missed it. 

“You’re tall,” I said softly. They nodded, 

“And you haven’t grown at all.” I frowned. Misha’s dad walked away, smiling softly. 

“Perspective has confused you,” I said. Misha smiled, and ruffled my hair. 

“You cut your hair!” They said. Their voice had not gotten much lower since they were young. I nodded. 

“You got a piano,” I said, and pointed around them. They looked over their shoulder. 

“Y-Yeah, I did,” Misha said, “Do-Do you want to actually come inside and talk, or stay here and keep doing this awkward not-talking?” I nodded. 

“I’ll come in,” I said, and they lead me into their living room. I sat down on the couch, and they sat a little bit to the left. 

“So…” They said, “What are your feelings towards me?” 

“What?” I asked. I hadn't thought that we would talk about this here and now. “Well…Um, okay…” I paused. This was where I was supposed to come up with something brilliant from the past and relate it to the present, to tell them that I loved them or do something else that was just as pretentious. I couldn't easily conjure something, unfortunately, so I just described the first memory that popped into my head. “There was a time when we were here during the winter, and I had walked here alone in the snow. I had been so angry and sad when I left my house that I hadn't thought to put on a coat, or shoes that didn't have holes in the toes. You told me my lips were blue, and told me to come in. We sat on the couch and watched a movie, and you wrapped us both in a blanket. We talked to each other more than we watched the movie, and I couldn't think about anything but how happy I was that night.” I paused. They were smiling, and fidgeting slightly. They edged a little bit closer, and grabbed one of my hands. “There was another time, I think the summer before, when I slept over here for the first time. I had to go to my grandparents house after, and- No. When I went back, they were so mad at me because I didn't tell them that I was staying over. A-And I cried that day, ‘cause I hated that I had to be with people I didn't like again, and I hated that I couldn't go more than a couple hours without you. I-It was so fucked up in my mind that you could need another person that much, and-” Misha hugged me tightly. 

“I love you, Beka,” They whispered, “I love you, so, so much.” I shifted slightly to hug them back. We sat there for a couple minutes, completely glued together. “You haven’t had the happiest life, have you?” Misha asked. I pondered for a minute. I considered my life to be the average experience, but of course it wasn't. My friends all had better family lives and most of them probably didn't hate themselves. I wondered if Misha’s parents had ever threatened to disown them for their queerness, or if they had ever even gotten any flak for it in the first place. 

I shook my head. 

“It’s gonna be happy from here on out,” They said, “I love you.” They kept whispering it as if it were a prayer. I closed my eyes. It was rare that someone told me that verbally, and it felt so good. I clutched at the back of their shirt, wishing that the moment would never end. 

“I love you too,” I whispered, testing it out, like a new food that needed to traverse the tongue before one could decide if they liked it or not. They hugged me tighter. “But don't you think this is a little rushed?” Misha pulled away.

“What do you mean?” 

“This is boyfriend stuff. We haven’t actually seen each other in four years.” 

“Who cares? If we have feelings for each other, then what does it matter?” 

“Our emotional connection has devolved,” I said, “How has your life been?” Misha narrowed their eyes for a moment, and then touched the back of my hand before they started talking.

“I graduated high school last year. I’m taking a gap year before I start college because I want to be able to pay for at least some of it myself. I work at a radio station and my dad’s tattoo parlour. I have two girlfriends and a boyfriend. You already know Kyushee, but then there’s another girl called Khulan, and my other boyfriend’s name is Vaska. I got some really nice headphones a few weeks ago, and I was a background dancer for a music video last year.” Their eyes lit up. “It was so hard, and it was scary, ‘cause there were all these professionals who walked in without their shirts on like ‘hello yes I am better than you’ and I was just some kid, but I made the final cut and it was so exciting! Although it was really tiring, because we would do nothing but repeat the same ten-second thing for hours, and a lot of it was really hard. I broke one of my toes, actually.” 

“What’s the name of the music video?” I asked. 

“Children of the Sun.”

“I’ll watch it later,” I told them, “Can we get lunch now?” They shook their head.

“It’s barely after eleven, that’s way too early,” They said. I wondered if they would even be awake right now under normal circumstances. 

“You shouldn't have invited me over this early.” 

“Fine, fine. Wanna watch TV and talk about how the rest of the world was?” They asked.

“Y-Yeah, sure,” I said, and they smiled broadly before setting the show to play, and cuddling up next to me. It was awkward almost immediately. I was tense, sweaty, and pressed against them. I untied the leather jacket from around my waist, and set it over my lap. It was about ten minutes into the show when I realized that I wasn't paying attention or absorbing anything, and we weren't even talking yet. I shifted away slightly, until there were a good few centimeters between us. Misha was staring raptly at the screen, as if they had forgotten about the whole premise of talking. We wound up leaving the house after three hours of television, which had been mostly watched in silence, with the occasional comment or laugh. I had never heard of the restaurant we went to, although I hadn't expected to. I didn't even remember how to get to downtown from my house anymore. 

We talked more during lunch, although it was mostly about my time in other countries. I didn't like being the only one talking. It made me feel vain. But Misha was giving me a blissed out smile and leaning on their hand, so there was probably some unspoken rule saying that I wasn't allowed to stop. Besides, they seemed to be entertained, so why ruin things for them? 

“Can you say something in English?” They asked at one point. 

“Like what?” 

“I don't know, just whatever,” They said, “I’m sure you’ll sound cute.” There was something about the word cute that bothered me. It created an exuberant joy at the same time as it made me briefly question what cuteness actually was. I didn't really think that anything was cute. In terms of people, attractiveness was more of an abstract thing than it was made out to be. I didn't understand all the hype. 

“ _ Ceci n’est pas une pipe, _ ” I said, not thinking. 

“That was English? Well shit,” Misha said, “I need to get my shit back together because I didn't recognize a single one of those words.” 

“It was French,” I said, “It’s the caption from that painting of the pipe.” They looked confused. “Treachery of Images? It’s one of the most famous paintings of the postmodern movement.” They still looked confused. I sighed. “Have you ever seen the painting of a pipe with the words underneath it ‘this is not a pipe’?” They shook their head. “I’ll show you when we go home.” Misha smiled, and leaned their head on one hand. 

“So how do you always find the time to know everything?” 

“I- I don't know everything,” I said, looking down at my water. The light was shining through my glass and making pretty designs on the table. I picked it up and took a small sip. 

“Or maybe that’s what the government wants you to say!” They said playfully,  smirking across the table. 

“I reject that statement,” I said, smiling back, “Although you should always be suspicious of the government. Unless you’re the president, then you should be suspicious of your people instead.” 

“Shit, man, that’s real,” Misha said, “So when do we begin our plan of espionage?” I laughed but didn't open my mouth. 

“First, we have to wait for the double agent I sent six months ago to come back to the base with more information.” Misha’s eyes lit up. 

“We have a base?! That’s so cool!” 

“And you ruined it.” 

“How did I ruin it?” They whined. 

“Your reaction broke the joke,” I said. Misha pouted. 

“I didn't know that we were sworn to joke secrecy.” 

“Jokes are very important. Without a little laughter, life would be a lot worse,” I said. Misha nodded, and shortly after, the food arrived. We ate, we talked, and on the walk back to their house, I became homesick for all the time we had missed. I needed to meet all of their friends, and we needed to do everything as fast as possible. There wasn't really a definition of everything, it was more of just a severe want to have experiences with them. I wasn't sure if we were still friends or if we were something else, but I didn't really care all that much anymore. Maybe I had reached a point where I was above labels, but it was really more probable that I was too happy to give a damn. When we got back to their house, they played a few songs on the piano, and after that we sat around and talked about everything that there was to talk about. They wanted to know more about JJ and Leo, and Ravil’s baby. I wanted to know about all the little things that made the difference between a happy life and hell. Does it feel exhilarating to make permanent drawings on people’s skin? What was it like to graduate high school? Tell me again how it felt when Kyushee said she wanted to be with you. 

They decided to drive me home around four, and I told them that motorcycles were better than cars. They smiled, and said that cars had a lower chance of killing you. I had to agree, but that was part of the appeal of motorcycles. When we got to my house, Misha got out of the car with me and walked me to the door. I didn't think I needed that protection, but it was likely true that their actions had been selfish. 

“See you,” I said upon reaching the door. Misha hugged me tightly, and I struggled to balance on the tips of my toes. They let me go. I was embarrassed by the sound of my heels hitting the ground. They looked slightly to the side, and then back to me. 

“Hey, Otabek?” They asked. 

“What?” 

“Last time we were here, I kissed your forehead ‘cause I was afraid to do it for 

real. C-Can I do that now?” I didn't know what to say. Kissing them was something I had thought about manny a time, but those were just silly little thoughts, pieces of my imagination. They weren't real and they never would be. Thinking about kissing them was safe when there was an ocean and several countries between us. All that space could prevent something stupid from happening. Something stupid like rising onto my toes, closing my eyes, and moving in very close. It was close enough to feel their surprised gasp rather than hear it, and then touch my lips to theirs. As it turned out, first kisses could not break the universe with how amazing they were. It felt good, though, really good. Their lips were soft and slightly greasy, and though I had no comparison, there was something that said they were a really good kisser. I jumped a little bit when I felt them touching my arms gently. They made a soft little sigh as they moved their lips, and started rubbing my right arm with their thumb. I didn't even think they were aware of what was happening, or how soft and tender they were. I just didn't want them to stop anytime soon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys
> 
> I still live with my parents, so when/if net neutrality gets repealed, it will likely mean the end of my AO3 account. I can probably find a way to post future chapters on tumblr or wattpad, though, so if any of that is going to happen it will be on my tumblr (paraduxkys.tumblr.com). Thank you all so much for reading and commenting. It means the world to me.


	24. 2015.3

Aliya paced around the living room with her every thought coming out of her mouth. It was amusing to watch her state of worry. She usually gave off the appearance of power, and seeing her panic was oddly reassuring. She was going on a date, and the girl was already thirty minutes late. Aliya must have liked her a lot, because she was dressed to the nines and her makeup was on point. She was wearing a black crop top with a red leather jacket, and shredded black shorts with tassels on the ends. She had on lace leggings, with knee high boots that had too many buckles for their surface area. Her hair was split into four braids that came together in a bun on the back of her head, and her eyeliner was sharp enough to draw blood. I wondered if the mystery girl felt as strongly for Aliya, who kept coming up with reasons as to why she could be late, saying that maybe it was work or traffic or maybe she had lost her cat. 

Ravil swung around the doorless doorframe of the kitchen, and hung on while he spoke. 

“Oh my God, Liya, the bitch has never once stood you up in three years. Just- just fucking stop before you wear the rug out,” He said, and swung back into the kitchen. Aliya looked as if she wanted to attack him. Instead, she scoffed before flopping down on the couch next to me. Her eyes were glassy, like she wasn't actually looking at anything.

“She’s just so closed off sometimes,” Aliya said, “Hey, Beka, you’re closed off, what does this mean?” I shrugged. I didn't really know how to give input, seeing as I had never met the mystery girl. 

“She might be afraid to bother you,” I said. Aliya shook her head. 

“Zea’s not like that. This is really weird for her. W-Would your ex have stood you up?” 

“Can't get stood up if you never dated.” She snorted. 

“But you’re almost seventeen.” 

“And?” The doorbell rang before Aliya could say anything else. She was there before I could even think of a response, looking out the peephole. She opened the door, and shouted that she was leaving, be back by midnight. The door was closed before Mama could even finish shouting ‘It’s Thursday!’ Aliya would be fine, even if the only thing Mama had been worried about was how much sleep she would get. Aliya was a badass, or at least she thought she was, and sometimes, that could make all the difference. I wish I thought I was a badass. That was how you became strong simply by upholding it’s lasting image.

I spent the majority of that night texting Misha. For some reason, it was so much easier to talk about our relationship when we weren't with each other. But anyway, we were officially dating, and it was time for me to meet the rest of the people that they were with, because they didn't think it was okay to date someone who didn't know who else their partner was sleeping with. That part made me a little anxious, but I wasn't really sure why. If it made them happy and I didn't consider it to be cheating, why did it matter if they slept with someone else? They were allowed to do it, the other people were just as much their girlfriends and boyfriends as I was. It would probably be fine, just as long as they didn't think that I was going to have an orgy or something with them. Was that selfish? When would they figure out that they were dating a child? 

On the fifth, I went with them to a restaurant to meet everyone. Surprisingly enough, they were late. I stood around awkwardly in the waiting area next to two conversing women, one of whom looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place where I knew her from. I swore I had seen her somewhere before, maybe at school. It was hard to tell, though, because she spoke with a Northern accent, and I didn't remember going to school with anyone, at least in Kazakhstan, who had an accent that was much different from mine. About ten minutes after I had realized that Misha wasn't there yet, a man walked in the door. He was tall and thin, with blue eyes and hair that was totally dyed black. I took this hypothesis to be confirmed upon noticing that his nails were painted black. One of the women looked up from where she was talking to her friend, and smiled upon seeing him. 

“Vaska!” She said, and rushed over to hug him. 

“Genghis,” He said, returning the hug. “Is Misha here yet?” The woman shook her head. I tried to listen a little bit harder. 

“No. Although I think we should just go to the table already. They said they reserved it, so…” She trailed off, and gestured to the hostess at the stand. 

“I think we should wait,” Said the Northern woman, “They probably just got distracted by something dumb. Here, I’ll text them now.”  She whipped out her phone, and started texting. The three of them started talking again. The man, Vaska, started talking about how he was planning on getting another tattoo soon. He already had one on the side of his arm, and I couldn't quite see it, but it looked like a DNA helix. The three of them started to talk about the most painful places to get a tattoo after that. They places that they came up with were ribs, throat, back of the hand or back of the foot, and the forehead. They were all fools. Clearly, the most painful places to get a tattoo would be your eyeballs, your lips, or the center of your palm. I already had my arms crossed, but I crossed them even tighter as my thoughts veered off to think about different types of pain. 

I wondered if I had dressed too formally. I had on a pair of jeans and a flannel. It was very comfortable, although if the others were also here to see Misha, I might have overdressed. The Northern woman was wearing a blue dress with rips and paint all over the skirt and a pair of Nike sliders. She was also wearing two different socks, which I thought was cool, but it was incredibly annoying that one of them came up to her ankle and the other one came up to the middle of her calf. What was worse was that the taller sock also had a Nike logo on it, across her toes, but it was going in the opposite direction of the one that was on the strap of the sliders. Her whole outfit was kind of a mess, and I couldn't tell if the rips were intentional or not, but there was a certain aesthetic appeal to it all. The other woman had on a pair of ripped up jeans and strappy sandals, and a Kazakhstan football jersey. She didn't really look like a sports fan, although I guess I didn't look like an athlete. I probably looked like some hipster who thought he could write but was actually trash. And the man- Vaska- was wearing a pair of Adidas basketball shorts and a plaid tee shirt. I hoped that Misha, when they got here, would be wearing something that evened it all out. Unfortunately, when they got there, (Only half an hour late) they were wearing the same clothes they had been wearing two days ago. I slapped my forehead in shame. What the actual fuck. Those clothes had barely been passable two days ago, and they were definitely not passable for this. They had on a pair of maroon basketball shorts and a white tee shirt, which they had paired with a pair of flip flops with glittery straps. 

“ _ Why are you like this? _ ” I mumbled in English, before going up to Misha, where they had started greeting the group, and tapped them on the shoulder. 

“Hi,” I said, when everyone started looking at me. I suddenly felt very short, with Misha on my right and Vaska on my left. My boots had heels and my chin wasn't even level with Misha’s shoulders. 

“Otabek!” They shouted, and picked me up in a hug. I grunted way too loudly, and resolved to simply become a sloth until they put me down. “Oh, yeah, this is my new boyfriend, Otabek.” The Northern woman squinted at me. 

“Do I know you from somewhere? You look familiar, and your name sounds familiar…Did we go to school together or something?” 

“Oh! Right, um, this is Kyushee, that’s Khulan, and he’s Vaska,” Misha said, “And you two know each other from Instagram.” 

“Cool. But, Misha, why aren't you wearing different clothes?” I asked. 

“How do you know I don't just have five hundred copies of this same outfit?” They asked. 

“You’re way more fashionable than that.” 

“Maybe that’s what the government wants you to think.”

“Actually,” Khulan interrupted, “The real government conspiracy is that Kyushee is secretly God.” Everyone except for me laughed, and Kyushee cringed pretty heavily while doing so. 

“It was a coincidence!” Kyushee shouted, just at the moment when everyone stopped laughing. It sounded a lot louder than it must have actually been. 

“What happened?” I asked Misha. 

“Alright, so it was raining, and we were hanging out at my place, you know, Khulan, Isay, Kezban, Kyushee, Alisher, the whole squad. We were playing Monopoly, and Kyushee lands on the most expensive spot, where Kezban has two hotels and a house,” They said. 

“A-And then, before she gave over the money, she said ‘I will smite you’ and then there was lightning. Kyushee is God, confirmed.” 

“Sounds legit,” I said, trying to channel as much sarcasm as I could. I paused, “Shouldn't we go to the table now?” 

“The table is probably gone, ‘cause this bitch was half an hour late,” Vaska said, “Let’s just go pillage a store.” 

“Not pillage,” Misha said, “Only lightly ransack.” 

“No, we should rapine it,” Khulan said. 

“That’s illegal,” I said. She squinted. 

“What about under maritime law?”

“Especially under maritime law.” 

“What about when there’s a dictator?”

“Depends on the dictator. Most would probably say no, but then it would happen anyway and-”

“What does rapine even mean?” Misha asked. 

“Violent theivory,” Khulan said. They looked surprised, and then smiled. 

“Smart is the new sexy,” They said. I rolled my eyes. The real question was, were we smart or was Misha dumb? 

“Nothing is the new sexy. Sexy has always been sexy, it’s just your definition of sexy that changes,” I said. 

“B-But you’re smart, and you’re sexy.” No. 

“No correlation,” I said. 

“Yes correlation,” Khulan said. I raised an eyebrow at her. “I meant me.” 

“How about that pillaging?” Vaska asked. “If you don't want to go, I can just go alone-” Misha put a hand on his shoulder and slowly shook their head while pushing out their bottom jaw.

“Nah, mate. This is about friendship. Let’s just go to that Russian place,” They said. 

“The one that takes twelve years to get to or the one that looks like a house?” Kyushee asked. 

“The one that looks like a house,” Misha said. And so we left the restaurant in

favor of going to a Russian restaurant that looked like a house. I rode in Misha’s car, seeing as I had gotten here via the subway, and they kept asking me what I thought of their other romantic partners. I told them that I liked them, but not that I was a little tired of never making any friends myself and just becoming friends with the friends of the people I already knew. Then again, maybe it could be said that that was the story of everyone. I would probably have my own friends soon enough. When we got to the Russian place, we ate, and I reminded Misha of the time that they had asked me what ten percent of six thousand was when they tried to calculate a tip. And if I had thought that I was decent at math, I was nothing compared to Khulan. Apparently, she had taken calculus in her first year of high school. My algebra two was puny in comparison. 

I liked Misha’s various love interests. The girls were nice, and Vaska seemed cool too, although he weirded me out a little bit because he kept touching Misha, and I had no idea how to deal with it. I was fine with them dating, don't get me wrong, but the way Vaska would put a hand on their lap at random points during lunch rubbed me the wrong way. Maybe it was me who was wierd. Knowing that Misha was dating other people was a very different from actually seeing them together. When we left for the afternoon, Misha leaned up to kiss Vaska’s cheek and then hugged Khulan and Kyushee. I told the two of them that we should stay in touch instead of just seeing each other by coincidence and on Misha’s birthday or something, and then I got into the car. They drove me home, and walked me to the front door. I felt so stupidly self conscious, even though there was nothing to be self conscious of. It was ridiculous. Misha was someone I had known since the beginning of time, and there was literally no reason to feel like I was doing something wrong. Besides, they wouldn't care, right? 

Once we arrived at the front door, I looked up at them, and then slowly raised one of my hands to touch their cheek. They felt like a peach that was just barely overripe. 

“I’m so glad you had fun today,” They said. I screamed internally, and let my hand drop. They were going to freak me out before I could even get there. 

“It was all you,” I said, “They’re your people.” Misha smiled, and hugged me gently before turning to leave. 

“Wait!” I said, just before they stepped onto the sidewalk. They turned around. There was a pause, and whatever I had planned on saying was no longer good enough. “My mom isn't home right now, you know.” I slapped myself internally. I had never thought that was something that real people said. I appeared to have proven myself wrong in the most embarrassing way possible. Misha returned to their former position of right next to me. 

“What exactly are you saying?” They asked. 

“Wanna come inside?” I asked, “We have food.” They smiled. 

“I would love to, Beka,” They said, and waited for me to open the door. With my hands in my pockets, I lead them in through the living room and up to my bedroom. They sat down on the edge of the bed and smiled. 

“Remember the last time we were here?” They asked, swinging their legs slightly, “You were where I am and I was where you are, and then we sat on the bed together for a while and talked.” They patted the bed next to them. I sat. “Do you remember if I was obvious or…?” 

“Obvious how?” I asked. Their eyes went wide, and then they smiled. 

“Oh my God, are you serious? Thank the holy lord-” 

“What?” I asked. They sighed, and put a hand on my shoulder. 

“Otabek, it’s awkward.” I narrowed my eyes, trying to appear angry. “Fine,” They whined, “Before you left, I was coming onto you, like, really hard. Like, that’s how I get people to sleep with me. Only I was fourteen, and…not really wanting, to um, to sleep with anyone yet. But like, fourteen year old me was doing their best.”

“I love you,” I said. It was like a reflex that made no sense. I was confused. That had not been the plan, even if it was true. I still couldn't tell if it was romantic or not, though, which was deeply irking. But Misha laughed softly, and touched the side of my face. 

“Can I kiss you?” They asked, and I nodded. They kissed me, and I really did love them. I remembered, suddenly and in vivid detail, a ballet class. It had been especially difficult that day, and I had been having a shitty day already. I felt like a failure going in, and there were scrapes and bruises all over the left side of my body. The bones and the muscles hurt as well, and I was so mad that I couldn't tell if I wanted to cry forever or fight everyone who approached me. Misha was my saving grace. They were maybe the nicest person I knew. They just cared so much when it would be just as easy, easier in fact, to just be a total dick. They got me fucking band aids for my cuts, and I remember being torn between being angry at being treated gently, and accepting the help. I cried that night. I felt weak and useless. I needed to be helped by someone else to feel like I wasn't trash, which was just so, so wrong at the time. I still didn't like it, but I would tolerate it. Especially when I wasn't self aware. 

I jumped when they touched my side. They pulled away for a moment. 

“Was that not okay?” 

“W-What?” I asked, and then realized what they were talking about. “It’s fine, it’s fine, I just wasn't expecting it.” They smiled, and then moved a piece of my hair. They kissed me again, and this time, they held me. It was nice. They were so warm, and it felt so good. I wanted to live in the state of warmth and goodness forever, but when one lives with two siblings and a niece, a mother not being home is one of the smaller worries. It was definitely a stupid idea to say that my bedroom was a private place when I shared it with my brother. Ravil opened the door and then stopped before he could even walk into the room. 

“I’m so sorry-” I started saying, after I noticed he was there. He shook his head, and put up a hand. He looked at the floor. 

“Hey, man, it’s cool,” He said, in a tone of voice that told me it was definitely not cool. “Just make sure he treats you right.” Ravil took a step into the room to grab something off of his bed and then left, with a call of ‘Don't be a fucking idiot’ before he was downstairs once again. 

“He’s never going to stop! All he’s ever done is just- just call me gay and turn everything I do into sex, and now he’s seen…that, and it’s never going to end.” They took my hand, and rubbed slow circles on the back of my hand with their thumb. They paused after a moment, and then brought my hand up to kiss the back of it. They were gone in a second, and clasping my hand in both of theirs before dropping it to the blanket.

“It’s okay,” Misha said, “One day he’ll move out, and then you’ll move out, and you’ll only have to see each other on holidays and birthdays.” I shook my head. 

“His baby is one of the most adorable things in the world.” Misha gave an amused snort. 

“You’re selfish,” They teased, “Just kidding. You’re super selfless, actually.” 

“Thanks,” I said. It didn't even feel like a word when I said it. I didn't even know if I meant it. I felt selfish, although not because of Samiya. I shifted so that my legs weren't hanging off the side of the bed and kissed Misha once again. They smiled at me. I tried to smile back and kissed them again. It didn't feel like anything that time, which was a worrisome thing that was brushed aside. 

“Maybe you should meet Samiya,” I said. 

“Who?” 

“The baby.” Misha smiled and clapped softly.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!” I got up, and left the room with a second set of footsteps behind mine. I lead them downstairs, and found Ravil sitting with Samiya on the couch, playing with her. I sat down a little bit away from him and touched her head gently with one finger. She turned around quickly and gurgled at me. She smiled with her mouth open. 

“Hey baby,” I said softly. 

“Thought you were busy with your boyfriend,” Ravil spat. 

“Misha isn't my boyfriend. They’re-” Misha sat down on my other side and clenched my arm like a  sphygmomanometer.

“I’m his boyfriend.” They kissed my cheek, and then whispered in my ear. “He’s the asshole, right?” I nodded once, ever so slightly. They kissed my neck, and I yelped softly. My heart started racing, because wasn't a neck kiss supposed to be hyper sexual? I didn't have enough time to think about it, however, because they moved away slightly. “I’m your boyfriend,” They whispered. I nodded, feeling a little bit stupid. 

“You guys need to freaking stop, my gosh,” Ravil said, and pulled Samiya onto his lap. “You have a bed for that sort of thing, and it is within your best interests to return there.” 

“He’s not smart,” I said, “Come on, Misha, Ravil and Samiya are here, and Aliya could arrive at any minute.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” They gave me a dumb looking smile, and I tried to give them one back. I probably looked stupid instead of cute. 

“Okay,” Ravil said, “What the heck do you want?” 

“Misha wanted to meet your baby,” I said. Ravil snorted, 

“My baby is called Samiya.”

“Hi, Sami,” Misha said softly, and extended their arm so that they could hold their hand out in front of Samiya. She smiled softly, and looked up at Misha 

“She’s not a dog, Misha,” Ravil said. 

“Can I hold her?” They asked, clasping their hands over their heart. “Please?” Ravil rolled his eyes and handed Samiya to them. They held her tightly, even though there weren't a lot of places she could go from their lap, and looked down at her with a very happy smile on their face.

“Who are you?” Samiya asked, her words all disjointed and stuttery. She could barely speak, but her voice was beautiful all the same. 

“I’m Misha,” They said, “I’m Beka’s boyfriend, honey.” She smiled, and turned her head to look at me. 

“You’re so pretty,” Misha cooed, “You look just like your daddy!” Samiya reached up and grabbed their nose with one hand. They laughed softly, and tapped her nose with their left index finger. She giggled in return. 

“Her eyes are black,” Ravil said, “Like her mom’s.” He sounded somewhat sad, but he was probably just thinking about her- Zhuldyz. 

“Did you love her when you did it?” I asked without thinking. I wanted to slap my hand over my mouth but refrained. The way Ravil was looking at me now said he wanted me dead, and showing even that much weakness could have been very bad. I mouthed the words  _ I’m sorry _ but I don't think he cared. 

“Yes,” Ravil said, looking at the floor. “Never have sex with someone you don't love.” 

“O-Okay,” I said. I hadn't been planning on it, but that was still solid advice. I turned to face Misha and Samiya, to see him playing with the tiny braid her hair was in.

“No,” She said, “You not Daddy. Onwy Daddy can touch my hair.” Misha cooed again.

“Oh my God! She’s so cute, Ravil! Did you braid her hair? That is so precious!” They didn't seem to be able to get their voice back down to a Mickey Mouse pitch, which I thought was so cute and sweet. 

“I did,” Ravil said. His voice was tight and awkward, which made me feel like it would be for the best if we left, but Misha wasn't able to pick up any of the cues I was madly lobbing in their direction. It took about half an hour and Aliya’s girlfriend walking through the room without pants on to get Misha to stop interrogating Samiya about her life and come back upstairs with me. There wasn't even that much that she could physically say, let alone remember. They were so strange to me, so delicate and occasionally a genius. I guess that was why I was attracted to them. Both in the past and in the present, Misha was kind and weird and intriguing. They wanted me to tell stories about America and Canada and Russia when we went back upstairs. We laid on a twin bed that wasn't nearly big enough for the both of us, and I talked about JJ and Leo. Misha was quite the JJ fan, I learned. 

“Are you a JJ Girl?” I asked, jokingly, “That’s what he calls his fans. And his girlfriend.” 

“I am a non-corporeal entity of JJ,” Misha said softly, “And am owned by no man.”

“JJ isn't a man, he’s a king.” 

“Well then, that changes everything.” I smiled at them. 

“You’d probably like him if you met him. He really likes music. He’s learning to play guitar, and he might seem really loud and intense at first, but he’s a good guy who just forgets to take his meds too often. That and he has a tramp stamp, algebra skills, and doesn't know what sixty nine means,” I said. 

“Hold up, he has a tramp stamp?” I nodded. “Of what?!”

“His initials.” Misha snorted, 

“Are you serious? That’s one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever heard.” I nodded. 

“I’ve seen him shirtless plenty a time. Y-You know, in locker rooms and stuff.” Misha smiled. One of their hands was resting on my back, running gently up and down my spine. It stopped, and rested in the dip where my waist was. Their hand burned through my shirt and left a hand-shaped scar in its wake. 

“Do you want to get a tattoo, Otabek?” They asked. I shrugged. 

“I don't know. I like the concept.” 

“If you want, I can get you one for free,” They said. I stopped holding myself up on my arms for a moment, squishing my nose against the mattress. 

“Hey, Misha? How much money do you make?” Their face pinched up for a moment, and they bit their bottom lip. “I-I’m sorry, if you don't wanna say-”

“No, it’s fine, it’s just the math. I think it’s, like, around twenty million? Twenty five million? It doesn't really matter, though, ‘cause I live with my parents. I don't even know how to do taxes.” 

“You sound so grown up,” I said, “You’re not that kid who does splits to avoid actually stretching anymore.” They snorted, and covered their face with one hand. 

“Shut up.” They paused. “H-How much do you make?” 

“It varies based on how good I do, because I really work for a bunch of advertisers. The government pays various sums of money for medalists, although the Olympics is where it’s at. That’s when the whole world is watching. Gold there is seventy six million, all the companies you impressed, and everyone who thinks you’re hot enough to be a model.” 

“Beka, if it were up to me, you would be in every ad the tattoo shop printed.” I pressed my face into the mattress. 

“No,” I groaned, “I hate modeling. It’s like you’re not even a real human.” 

“That’s rude. Nobody should feel like they’re not a real person.” They said, and pushed at my hip until I rolled onto my side. “You’ve gotta know that when you feel like you’re not real…That’s when you’re the most real you can get.”

“You’re someone who cares about that sort of thing,” I said softly. They looked confused. They were about to ask a question, and I didn't want to try to explain my more abstract thought processes so I asked them to kiss me. They did, swift and gentle. “Not like that.” It took far too long to get them to kiss the distracting way, but by the time that happened, I too was distracted. They were making soft noises that I didn't understand, and tracing the edges of my body with their fingertips. They were full of an electric heat. It was so very intriguing, but vanished when they moved away for air. All that remained was the cold, second hand spit I wore for chapstick. 

“Otabek,” They whispered. 

“Misha.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hbd jesus
> 
> merry christmas n happy holidays to yall, thanks for reading. if you had a good day, yay! that's great! if you didnt, that sucks. i hope tomorrow is better! <3 sorry if you thought the chapter was short. or yay, it's finally back to a sane length. and sorry if the ending is weird. it's kind of foreshadowing, but executed in a weird way. 
> 
> hey guess what, the next chapter is in 2016 and yall know what that means (yuri is finally back thank the lord) 
> 
> i hope that i can manage to write grown yuri good enough. this is where the story is really going to pick up, i think, so hopefully things will get a little less boring. 
> 
> see ya in 2018 (oh my god its almost 2018 what the fuck)


	25. Not An Update

I'm abandoning this story until I find the motivation and inspiration to finish it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Happy chocolate bunny season. If you don't celebrate chocolate bunny season, happy Sunday. And if you're not reading this in chocolate bunny season, you're a liar, because every season is chocolate bunny season.


End file.
